


THE BLACKBIRD AND THE SPARROW'S NEST

by sfmpco



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Interpol - Freeform, Ukraine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 131,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfmpco/pseuds/sfmpco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes faces a challenge even he cannot fix, and it throws him into the dark underworld of human trafficking and the sex slave trade in Britain.  At the same time a disturbing family revelation forces him to make a decision for the Holmes family that will alter the course of their lives forever. An exploration of monsters both real and in the mind.</p><p>This is book #2 in the BLACKBIRD series.  If you have not read THE BLACKBIRD SINGS AGAIN, please do so first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson ran down dock #3 at the Racecourse Marina Windsor to the small yacht docked at the end just as another yacht burst into speed and left the marina at a breakneck pace.

“He’s getting away!” Sherlock yelled, but there was no time to give chase.

The small yacht was already starting to list as it took on water. As they neared the yacht, Sherlock shook off his coat and pulled off his scarf, dropping them onto the dock, then leaped on board the craft as if he practiced parkour every day. Even so, he let out a groan with the landing. As he was nearing his fortieth birthday, his joints were giving him signs that they were not quite as forgiving as they were when he was twenty-five. John made a more cautious but quick boarding. Sherlock was already heading below deck.

The lower deck had several inches of water and more was coming in at each moment, and Sherlock waded mid-calf into the staterooms. “Stay back, John! Wait for emergency services!” he said as John started to follow him.

“Two of us will make it go faster!” John insisted.

The yacht suddenly lurched with a small explosion beneath the hull and Sherlock was quickly up to his knees in water. “Get back!” John stepped back to the upper deck while Sherlock opened the master stateroom. The large bed was already underwater, and covers and pillows were floating on the water with other debris. Sherlock opened the storage areas against the pressure of the water which immediately flooded each one. Yachts were not his specialty and he’d spent very little time on them. Storage was tight and cramped, he knew, but he still needed to find a space big enough to hide a body or two. He tried to scan for clues. _Live-aboard, linens unwashed._ A child’s shirt floated on the water buoyed by a half-dressed Barbie doll.

“Sherlock, hurry up!” John yelled.

“They’re here somewhere! They have to be!” Sherlock insisted as he slogged through to the galley. Seat cushions were floating in the water. He thought he heard something, like a soft pounding, and he turned around. He reached below the water to open a compartment beneath one of the bench seats, immediately flooding it, but a hand reached out, and he quickly pulled up a young teenage girl who came up gasping and coughing. “I’ve got one!”

The girl clung to him. _My sister! Find my sister!_   she begged him in Ukrainian. It had been several years since he had spoken any Ukrainian, but he vaguely recognized what she said, and he also knew there was another person on board. At least that was what the intelligence sources had indicated. Ukrainian wasn’t a widely spoken language even in the Ukraine where more than 80% of the population spoke Russian. The fact that the girl chose to speak in Ukrainian suggested to him that the girls were an ethnic minority and were from somewhere between central and western Ukraine. Ukrainian had been necessary for him to learn a few years earlier during his two-year MI6 mission of dismantling Moriarty’s network, but the Ukrainian branch of the network was small, and he hadn’t spent much time there. He had tucked the language away in a room in his mind palace.

 _I will find her_ he assured her as he helped her up the stairs towards John. He was surprised how quickly the words came to him although he was not certain his grammar was 100% correct, and he did not have time to access his mind palace for more detailed information.

John pulled the girl up onto the deck and onto the dock, and as he did, the yacht suddenly lost its mooring, listed sharply and began to go down. The yacht basin was not terribly deep but it was still deep enough for the small yacht to be completely submerged under many feet of murky water.

“Sherlock!” John yelled as the yacht went completely under in a matter of moments.

Sherlock tumbled in the darkness as the yacht shifted, and he found himself underwater not knowing which way was up until he released a small bit of air from his lungs and tracked the direction of the bubbles through his fingers. He followed the bubbles as small emergency lights came on. They would short out soon enough, he knew, but he found an air pocket and gasped for air. The yacht had gone down on its side, and he knew there was not much time. If the sister was still alive, she would likely drown quickly. He also knew his time was limited. Although he was certain the air pocket would remain, it would quickly run out of oxygen. He was going to have to swim with the girl whether she was alive or dead, and he was going to have to dive within the yacht to search for her.

He took a large gulp of air and dove down a few feet, feeling his way along the curved bench seating in the galley. He opened the storage units beneath each. Nothing but normal items. He came back up for air, then struggled to open the seating above him. Something immediately tumbled down on top of him, forcing him momentarily under the water. He saw her. A child of no more than ten years old, and she was as limp as a rag doll in the water. He quickly pulled her up into the air pocket. She was unresponsive.   _Breathe!_ He said. "Breathe, damn it!” He patted her cheeks but she remained unresponsive, and it was impossible for him to attempt CPR. Drowned, he knew, but he did not know for how long, and he hoped there was a chance to save her. He made his way towards the stairwell, took a deep breath and pulled her underwater as he swam out with her in tow.

The surface of the water was at least twenty feet up, but it was not clear. Filtered light in the murkiness. He pushed off from the yacht to propel himself up faster, but even so it was further than he thought, and he felt his lungs wanting to burst. As he broke surface he gasped for air and he quickly brought the child up.

John reached down from the dock and pulled the child up onto the wooden planks, then helped leverage Sherlock out of the water.

A small crowd had started to gather from the nearby restaurant and small housing community. Emergency vehicles were just pulling up into the marina car park, and Sherlock picked up the girl in his arms and carried her down the dock to the grassy area where John immediately began CPR and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Her lips were blue. John had only been at it for a few moments when they were met by the emergency paramedics and police. John stepped back and let the paramedics take over.

The older sister began to cry at seeing her younger sister so lifeless, and John held her back as the paramedics began to work on her. CPR was not helping the child.

“Anichka! Anichka!” the older girl wrenched out of John’s grasp and fell to her knees beside her sister. She gently stroked the girl’s head, _Wake up! Please!_

John again pulled her back and wrapped his arms around her firmly. Sherlock turned to the sister.

 _What is your name?_ he asked.

“Ionna.” She said.

 _Ionna, Let them work._ He said gently. He assured her that everything possible was being done.

 _Is she dead?_ She turned to John and began weeping into his shirt. Sherlock figured her age to be between thirteen and fourteen, but she was small, perhaps due to inadequate nutrition in her formative years. The same was true of her sister. She was given a warm blanket, and John wrapped it around her. She was trembling but not with cold.

Anichka remained unresponsive despite the CPR, and she was quickly loaded into an ambulance with her older sister. _Please come!_ She begged Sherlock.

He shook his head and told her she was in safe hands and not to worry, but inwardly he was worried. He was no longer concerned for their safety but he was concerned for their ultimate fate.

Detective Inspector Lestrade walked across the grass to Sherlock. “Good work getting to the girls.”

“I wasn’t fast enough.” Sherlock said grimly. “The young one is dead.”

“You don’t know that.” John said. “They’re still working on her. In fact, I’m going to go with them to hospital and see what I can do to help. I’ll catch you later.” John ran up to the ambulance just as they were about to close the rear doors, and he was immediately let in. Within moments the ambulance took off with sirens wailing.

“They would have both been dead if you hadn’t got here first,” Lestrade reminded him, but it was of little comfort. Sherlock felt the sting of failure. He had worked out where the girls were and was simply first on the scene, but he hadn’t worked it out quickly enough, and a child was possibly dead. He knew that ultimately the death was not on his shoulders, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that had he been just a bit quicker in all respects that she might still be alive, even though he knew she might have been dead before they even arrived on scene. ““I didn’t know you spoke Russian.” Lestrade said.

“Ukrainian.” Sherlock corrected. “They’ll need an interpreter, of course.” Sherlock said. “Go easy on her when you interrogate her. She must be all of fourteen. She’s not a criminal.”

“Why don’t you interrogate her since you already speak the language?” Lestrade asked.

“Let’s not forget the screaming that happened the last time I attempted to interrogate a child,” he said referring to an incident a few years before when his old nemesis, James Moriarty, had had two children kidnapped by someone who looked very much like Sherlock. When Sherlock had gone in to question the girl later, she had screamed in terror.

“But you saved these girls. It’s different.” Lestrade said.

“I saved the two Bruhl children also and was smeared as a fraud in the press. No, I leave the interrogation of minors in your hands.” He said.

“And just how did you know that they were even on the boat?” Lestrade asked.

“Not everything is about deduction. Sometimes it’s just about getting the right information.”

“You’ll have to get a lot more specific than that or the press will nail you as being involved, and this, like the case Moriarty tried to frame you for, have image tarnishing implications, and this one will be much worse.”

He did not want to elaborate further at the moment, however. It could damage the trust he had built with his network and possibly put some of them in danger. The network was an excellent source regarding information on runaways, hiding fugitives, and various other crimes including human trafficking. There were codes for certain activities, and the code they had for trafficking was “stolen painting.” When he was alerted that two sickly young runaways had been recaptured by traffickers and were to be killed, he had dropped everything to search for them. He was informed of a yacht at the marina that was often used for illicit trafficking activities and that two young girls matching the description of the runaways had been seen on the boat. He could not tell Lestrade any of that, however, without risking his ability to be a confidant to his network. They needed him as much as he needed them.

It was obvious to Sherlock that the traffickers felt the heat of the law on their plans and had tried to scuttle the boat and kill the girls. It did not completely make sense to him, however, that a perfectly good yacht should be scuttled just to murder two girls when killing them could have been done in much easier and far more discreet way. He was either dealing with a trafficker who had panicked or with a moron. He favored both scenarios.

“I have to protect my sources, Detective Inspector.” He said simply.

Lestrade sighed in frustration. He hated it when Sherlock tied his hands that way. “I’ll come up with something to tell the press.”

One of Lestrade’s officers handed him a blanket, and Lestrade handed it to Sherlock.

“What’s this for?” Sherlock asked.

“Because you’re dripping buckets, and I’m giving you a ride back to Baker Street, and I don’t want you getting my car seat wet.” Lestrade said simply.

“Let me save you the worry.” Sherlock said somewhat sharply as he retrieved his coat and scarf from the dock and walked over to the GoGos restaurant inside the main marina building. He returned several minutes later wearing his coat and scarf, but his trousers and other wet clothes were in a plastic trashbag. His legs were bare as were his feet.

“Are you naked under that coat?” Lestrade asked.

“Aren’t you naked under your clothes?” Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade as he got into Lestrade’s car.

As Lestrade drove him back into central London, he turned to Sherlock and said, “This isn’t actually my division, you know.”

“When I’m on a case, it’s always your division.” Sherlock said simply.

“Sherlock, this isn’t like a regular case.” Lestrade said. “It’s bigger than you and not one you can solve. Not this time.”

“Is that a challenge?” Sherlock asked.

“You know what I mean,” Lestrade insisted. “It’s not stolen jewellery or a husband having an affair or even murder. It’s human trafficking and the sex slave trade. There’s no one source of the problem. It comes from all over the world, and you can’t stop it.”

“I stopped it for those two girls.” He said.

“Maybe.” Lestrade said.

“What do you mean maybe?” Sherlock asked.

“Because they’ll probably be deported back to the Ukraine where there’s little hope for them to have decent lives as orphans, and they’ll go right back into it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I said it wasn’t my division,” Lestrade said. “I didn’t say I was ignorant about it. You know what I’m saying is true. You just don’t want it to tarnish your heroics today.”

“Heroics? I don’t care about heroics.”

“Bollocks. You like the thrill of being in the most danger and you know it. You didn’t send John in after the girls on the sinking boat.”

“He’s got a family, and he’s not a particularly good swimmer.” Sherlock said dismissively.

“You get off on it, Sherlock. We both know that, and we’ve known each other too long for you to pretend you don’t. One of these days you’re not going to be so lucky.”

“One of these days Scotland Yard will be faster, but until then, your best bet is still me.”

It was true, and Lestrade knew it. There was absolutely no one in Scotland Yard who could deduce crime scenes or facts the way that Sherlock could, and Sherlock was none too keen to work as closely with Scotland Yard ever since the smear campaign that had been started by a couple of over-zealous detectives. Although Sherlock’s name had been eventually cleared, he generally did not trust them any more although his friendship with Lestrade remained intact.

Lestrade’s car pulled up at 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock got out of the car with a quick thank you and retrieved his bag of sodden clothes from the back seat. He fished out his keys from his pocket and let himself in. He was almost immediately met by Mrs. Hudson who was just on her way out, a small suitcase in tow. She looked him over, rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask.”

He dropped the bag of wet clothing at her feet. “Ruined probably, but perhaps you could take them to the cleaners for me while you’re on your way?”

“I’m on my way to my sister’s for the weekend, Sherlock. You’ll have to take care of it yourself.” She said. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek then wrinkled her nose. “What have you been swimming in, young man? Go take a wash!” She waved her hand to send the scent of him away as she let herself out of the front door.

He bounded up the stairs two at a time, glad to be back in his flat. A long, hot shower removed the stink of the Thames from his skin and hair, but his eyes burned a little from the contaminants from the yacht basin waters. He rinsed his eyes with cool water for several minutes. He had escaped death today and knew it, but he didn’t know how long he would be so lucky. Thankfully the life and death cases were rarely on the agenda, but he didn’t want to pursue them either. He’d had enough brushes with death to last him the rest of his life.

A text from John was waiting for him as he went into the kitchen to make some coffee.

GIRL’S HEARTBEAT RESTORED.  
NOT AWAKE YET.  
WILL KEEP YOU POSTED.  
JW

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, but he knew a heartbeat restored was no guarantee that there was not residual brain damage from oxygen deprivation. What bothered him more, however, was that the one probably responsible for trafficking the girls into and within Britain had got away on another yacht.

The scuttled yacht would have to be pulled to the surface by salvage, and then Sherlock would investigate the yacht for further clues to the trafficker. That might take salvage several days, however, depending on how quickly Scotland Yard moved on it, and then it would have to sit in dry dock for several days to drain out the water and dry it out a bit. Finding the owner of the yacht would be simple enough, but whether or not the owner was of any connection was still to be determined. He would press Lestrade to have the yacht salvaged as quickly as possible before valuable evidence was further damaged or completely destroyed.

Maybe the girls would be able to offer information. He knew that conditions in the Ukraine, especially for orphan girls, were dire. Although human trafficking had never been one of his MI6 assignments, he had spent some time in the Ukraine dismantling parts of Moriarty’s old network, and he had seen first hand what little opportunity there was. Even so, it still shocked him at the age of the girls as this was a very seamy underside of human trafficking – either child slavery or pedophilia, and both turned his stomach. He was determined to find their trafficker and bring him to justice. He assumed the trafficker was male but he left open a possibility that the trafficker could be female. Either way, the exploitation of children was something he refused to tolerate, and he did not particularly even like young children or teenagers. He especially did not like teenagers. He thought they had got snarkier through the years, always thinking they knew more than they did with little respect for authority. He found them annoying.

There were some teenagers in his homeless network: disenfranchised youth who had been spit out of the system or who needed to escape a difficult home life, but he laid down a very firm personal law with them and had no qualms bringing his swift, stern judgment to anyone who stepped out of line. He treated them with respect and expected to be treated with respect and loyalty in return. Any disloyalty within the network was rooted out and dealt with firmly not only by him but by older members of the network. They would not tolerate it either. Sherlock was one of their guardian angels, they knew, but they also knew not to cross him.

Although he never helped in a soup kitchen, Sherlock did find ways of covertly helping those in his network. He generally left philanthropy into the qualified hands of others, but he could on occasion point someone in his network to potential opportunities for a better life without getting directly involved himself. Having grown up in a very comfortable upper-middle class lifestyle, he had never really wanted for anything, and he did have a small amount of sentiment for those who struggled daily to have something to eat or a safe, warm place to sleep. He could not fix London’s homeless problem, but paying some of them on occasion to be his eyes and ears had proven to be a tremendous benefit in solving a great many crimes faster than Scotland Yard.

Sherlock walked down a long corridor inside St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. He had the floor plan of the entire hospital memorized, but he’d never had occasion to go down this particular corridor before.

He came to door 311E and knocked. He heard a muffled, “Come in” from the other side, and he turned the handle.

Molly Hooper sat behind a plain desk with a computer, mostly empty bookshelves, and one window that had an uninteresting view.

“What’s all this?” Sherlock asked.

“My office, at least temporarily.” She said. “Dr. Mickelberg had a sudden transfer to another hospital, and they asked me to take over his lab classes in the interim. Anatomy, of course.”

“Really?” he said.

“Congratulations would have been more appropriate.” She corrected.

Bad form, and he recognized it instantly, but it was too late to repair his response now without seeming contrite. “I’m just surprised you didn’t tell me before about this.” He gestured around at the office space.

“I wanted to be sure before I said anything, but this is a teaching hospital, and I am perfectly qualified and capable of teaching anatomy and pathology.”

“Wasn’t implying anything.” He said quickly. “So you’ll be teaching and working in the morgue?”

“I’ll be teaching and overseeing the morgue.” She said. “They gave me this office. Never had an office before. Just a locker.” Molly sighed a little, then bit her lip. “And I’ve been asked to give a lecture at the Royal Society of Medicine. Me. What do I have to say that they haven’t already heard a hundred times before and by better people?” She groaned and buried her face in her hands.

Sherlock rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. He could see part of a silver chain around her neck, and he gently lifted it, unburying it from behind her multi-colored jumper to reveal the ring he had given her only a month before. Their relationship was extremely guarded and private with only a handful of people in their tight circle aware of it. She could not wear the ring at work and risk too many questions, but it also wasn’t practical to wear any hand jewelry as she often had her gloved hands inside cadavers, and any ring could potentially rupture the gloves. She tucked it back into her jumper, then reached back and patted his hand. “So what do you really want?”

“Why would you think I wanted something?” he asked.

“Because you don’t make social calls here, not even to see me,” she said.

“Need to work on my CPR skills. Perhaps I could practice on one of the dummies at Barts?” he asked.

“Why the sudden interest in CPR?” She asked.

“It’s come up more than once in a case over the years. One never knows when it might be necessary.”

“So sign up for a class. They’re held all over the city all the time.”

“But there will be other people there.” he protested. “Just schedule me some one-to-one time with an instructor. Pull some strings. Work it out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not exactly in the business of reviving bodies but dissecting them, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m rather busy. I’ve got lessons to prepare, an office to organize, work to do. Greg Lestrade can connect you. I believe all policemen are CPR trained.”

He leaned down close to her ear and barely whispered in a low rumble, “Dr. Hooper, did I mention how very proud I am that you have taken this new step in your career?”

She both loved and hated it when he was being charming to manipulate her. Mostly she hated it because he was very difficult to resist, compounded even more so by their engagement. Not only that, his cologne was particularly intoxicating, and it was the scent she loved the most on him, but she had a caveat. “You’ll help me set up my office.” She said firmly. There was a time when she would not have asked for anything in return, but if he so blatantly was going to use flattery as manipulation, she would make him work for what he wanted.

“Done.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. He started to walk out, but she called to him.

“Sherlock, what happened today?”

He hung his head for a moment. She had seen through him like she always seemed to do, and there was no pretending. “I wasn’t fast enough.” He said quietly, painfully.

“What do you mean?” she asked, but when he shook his head and held up his hand, she knew not to press the matter. Since they had made a commitment to their relationship, he had become slightly more unlocked about his life and work, but he was still largely guarded about his heart. “Dinner?” she asked. “My place? 8:00?”

“I’m having dinner with Mycroft.” He said. “You’re welcome to come,” he added as an afterthought, but he actually hoped she would decline. Nevertheless he had suddenly felt obliged to invite her even though he suspected the conversation would be of little interest to her.

“Dinner with the two of you. Just shoot me now,” she said dryly. “I think I’ll pass, thank you. Will I see you after your dinner?”

“It could be very late,” he said. “Dinner tomorrow?”

“I’ll be up to my eyeballs in research, but I’ll order in some pizza.”

“No, on second thought I should leave you to your research. Don’t want to distract you, big career move and all.” He said. “I know what distraction can do to concentration.”

“Sherlock,” she said simply, “when I am done with my research for the day, I might like a little distraction.”

His brow went up at the idea and he winked at her before leaving her office.

Sherlock met Mycroft at the Savoy Grill at 1930 hours, and they were seated at Mycroft’s private table. Mycroft ordered wine for them, but they were not brought menus. The Savoy knew their orders by heart. Their orders never varied. Mycroft always had the grilled native lobster and Sherlock always had the fillet steak, medium rare. For dessert Mycroft always had English strawberry millefeuille and Sherlock always had vanilla crème brûlée with vanilla madeleine. Of course it always all went onto Mycroft’s tab.

“So I understand you had a bit of a swim in the Thames earlier today.” Mycroft remarked as he began his meal with a starter of steak tartare.

Sherlock took a bite of his smoked salmon starter. “I might purchase a yacht. What do you think?” he asked.

“I think you should stick to cases that have a beginning and an end.” Mycroft said. “You’ve got yourself involved in something that you cannot win. The Ukraine alone traffics over two thousand young girls and women into Britain every year, and that’s just one country they traffic to. And that’s just one country that traffics to Britain.”

“What’s going to happen to the girls, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly. “If a relative can be found, they will be sent back. Or if they are orphans, they may be returned to their orphanage. We’ll see if they were kidnapped or exactly how they got into the country in the first place. Immigration issues are not my department. Why are you so concerned about these two children?”

“I’m not. Just don’t like risking my life if there’s not going to be a satisfactory outcome.” He said.

“Deportation is a satisfactory outcome.” Mycroft said.

“Maybe not for them.”

“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you apply for temporary guardianship?” Mycroft quipped.

“Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock said sharply. “But suppose I uncover something significant that I can diffuse? Perhaps I could take a little vacation to the Ukraine, sort things out.”

“I don’t see the point, Sherlock. There are far more pressing matters at home, or are you so bored?”

“Bored? Why do you say I’m bored?”

“Because you’re eating a decent meal which means you’re between cases.”

“I’m not between cases. I’m still on the case.”

“No,” Mycroft said. “It’s an immigration matter now. I suggest you move on. You haven’t even looked at the files I sent over yesterday, have you?”

“Mycroft, I don’t need you to feed me casework. I have people lining up at my door.” Sherlock said.

“Cheating husbands, stolen jewellery, missing persons. Puerile. Get back in the real game, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair. “Are you making me an offer?”

“The offer is always open, Sherlock. You know that. Think about it.”

“I have thought about it. You already know my answer.”

“So the celebrity lifestyle feeds your ego, is that it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not a celebrity, Mycroft. I’m a consulting detective.”

“On the front page of The Daily Mail and Guardian three times this week plus one television interview and a radio interview in the last twenty-four hours. You’ve moved up the list of the one hundred most influential people in Britain. John Watson didn’t make the list at all, but you did. Might we be expecting a tell-all autobiography soon?”

“They can read my blog, but they don’t, and that’s all I’ll give them.”

Mycroft sighed. “The Science of Deduction. A bit arcane for the common public.”

Sherlock shrugged. He did not care if people understood what he did. He had not kept up with his blog because it was clear no one was reading it despite his supposed “celebrity.” He expected people to attempt to keep up and if they were too slow, which he knew they were, that was not his problem. Nevertheless he had been somewhat disappointed in the lack of following on the blog. “Yet another dinner full of brotherly empathy and sentiment. Why exactly did you invite me?”

“Must I have an ulterior motive to have dinner with my brother?”

“Always.” Sherlock said.

“Just take a look at the files I left you, and enjoy your fillet steak at the expense of the British taxpayers.”

Their main courses arrived, and they spent the remainder of the meal mostly in silence, but that was largely how Mycroft preferred it. He did not care to chat and eat, especially if he had a lobster on his plate. He usually ate alone anyhow, so he was used to silence.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a lift home in a government car. “Might I be expecting to hear from you about the files within twenty-four hours?” Mycroft asked as Sherlock stepped out of the car.

“You might. Then again you might not.” Sherlock said simply.

He was about to unlock the door at 221B, but he hesitated, then stepped back onto the pavement and looked up at the windows of his flat. Something was amiss. The curtains were not quite right. He approached the front door cautiously, carefully slowly opening it. He reached in and flicked on the hallway light. He was instantly greeted with a debris field that extended up the stairs. Broken objects, papers, books.

Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived within the hour, despite it being a late hour. He was actually off duty but came at Sherlock’s request, bringing a team from Scotland Yard.

Sherlock’s flat had not just been broken into but completely ransacked and demolished. Broken items, papers, glass shards, overturned furniture. Computers and television smashed. His favorite skull was bashed in. Although Sherlock was not the most sentimental of people, it nevertheless unnerved him slightly that someone had so violated his personal belongings. He let out a terse sigh when he picked up his shattered violin. There would be no repairing it. Of all the damage, that hurt the worst. It was insured and he’d get another one, but he’d had that one for several years and knew just how to coax the best sound from it. Every violin was different, and now he’d have to find another one that he would feel he could grow old with.

“Someone really doesn’t like you.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock shrugged off the comment. There were countless people who did not like him. “I’m not even sure if they took anything or if they just brought in a wrecking ball. If Mrs. Hudson were here she would have heard it. That means I’ve been watched and someone was waiting for the right timing, waiting to do as much damage as they could without being interrupted.”

“Someone, but who?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stepped gingerly through the debris which crunched under his feet, and he righted his desk which had been turned on its side. All around him on the floor were the items that had once been on top of the desk.

“Sherlock, don’t tamper with the crime scene.” Lestrade remarked.

“I know it’s a bloody crime scene!” Sherlock snapped. “I’ll figure it out faster than your lot will.” He looked around at the debris near his desk. “I’m looking for a brown catalogue envelope. It was on the desk.”

The envelope held the files that Mycroft had sent over, and it was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock immediately wondered if that was the object of the break-in. Someone wanted those files, and he did not even know what the files were. Of course the files were only copies of the originals, and he could have Mycroft send over a second set, but there was always some governmental secret in the files, and just how top secret the files were was not something he knew.

“We’re looking for a large brown envelope with contents!” Lestrade said to his crew, but an hour of searching turned up nothing. Mycroft would be none too pleased.

“You may as well send everyone home. This isn’t a break-in,” Sherlock said. “As far as I can tell only one thing was taken. The rest of this mess is someone just wanting to destroy everything or do as much damage as possible to me personally.”

“Any ideas?”

“A few dozen.”

“Well, you’re not sleeping here tonight. The boys won’t be finished here for a few more hours, so I suggest you get a hotel room. They’ll be done by the morning.”

“But I just told you—“ Sherlock started but Lestrade interrupted him.

“Yeah, I know what you told me, but when you ask me to come here in the middle of the night, you play by my rules. Get a hotel.”

Sherlock briefly considered the possibility of going to Molly’s for the night, but it was late and he did not want to wake her, and so after picking up a few items from his bedroom and bathroom, he made his way back to the Savoy. He booked a lovely room that overlooked the Thames and the London Eye. He’d had occasion to stay there before and always had an open invitation due to an internal scandal he had managed to solve which saved the hotel well over £1,000,000. Sometimes he took payments and sometimes he took favors. With the Savoy he had taken a little of each. He often did not call in favors on cases at all, but the favors were there if he needed them. He stood at the window and watched the lights of the city at that late hour, and as he did he decided that a security system in the flat was long overdue. This was not the first time the flat had been broken into and it would likely not be the last, but he would make every attempt to keep his belongings safe in the future.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock returned to his flat mid-morning, pulling down the police tape from outside the front door to the tape inside 221. His first order of business was to collect the debris from the stairs. He did not want Mrs. Hudson to see any clues upon entering the address that something was amiss. That would only cause her to worry, and she’d also probably somehow blame him for it. Books could easily be put back on shelves, but refiling and sorting of paperwork was going to be a bit of a nightmare. He called Mycroft almost immediately.

“I haven’t found the files yet.” Sherlock said apologetically. “I’m not sure they’re here anymore. Can you send over another set?”

“Do you have any idea what’s in those files, Sherlock?” Mycroft said tersely.

“I told you I never looked at them. Perhaps you need to investigate who knew the files were being delivered here. Someone didn’t want me to have those files, or better yet, someone wanted those files. I’ll be sending you a bill for the damage to my flat.”

“Why would you be sending me a bill?”

“You sent the files. Like bait to a criminal. It’s your fault my flat was broken into.” Sherlock said simply.

John and Mary arrived shortly thereafter with the baby in tow, and John set up the playpen for the baby while Mary went about gathering the books and re-shelving them although she knew they would not be in Sherlock’s particular order. He could sort that out later. He would have to sort out the filing later too, not that his filing system was ever something John had understood anyhow. And then there were the broken things. Thankfully none of the windows were broken, but John and Sherlock hauled the television out to the bins, and Mary borrowed the Hoover from Mrs. Hudson’s flat and began meticulously to pick up every tiny shard of glass or ceramic that she could find.

His microscope was ruined and once again, although it was replaceable, it was extraordinarily annoying for it to be unusable. Now he would have to research the updated, latest versions and see how soon he could get one delivered. Then there was all his lab equipment, also smashed. Slides, experiments: all ruined. Easy enough to replace. In the meantime he would use the labs at Barts as necessarily. Fortunately many of his cases did not require such scientific equipment. Even so, he was often still referred to in the papers as “Boffin Sherlock Holmes.” The public seemed to feel he was closer to a forensic scientist, and he felt a bit pigeon-holed with that description. He felt he was much more than that.

“Have you lost a lot of computer data?” John asked when they took a break for a cold beer and Mary fed little Elizabeth. The baby was starting to eat soft foods which Mary insisted on making from scratch.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I never keep anything on the hard drive. Too corruptible. I store it online or on a flash drive.” John started to say something and Sherlock added, “Yes, I know. I was thinking it also. I’ll have security installed as soon as Mrs. Hudson gets back.”

“The kind that alerts your cell phone.” John said.

It took several hours to get the flat somewhat tidy again, and then John drove Mary home with the caveat the he would return to the hospital to see about the girls.

Sherlock suspected he would not be able to sleep until he had his books back in the right order. He was just enough OCD for that to be a stumbling block in his routine. Once the Watsons had left, however, he found the flat to be uncomfortably silent. No television, no computer, no stereo. All he had was the music on his smartphone, and even that was only tolerable for a short amount of time through such an inadequate speaker system. He was quite glad then, when Lestrade interrupted the relative silence with a phone call.

“Sherlock, the girls won’t speak with the interpreter. Was wondering if you could pop by the hospital for a few minutes. The oldest girl was asking for you specifically.” Lestrade said. “Apparently she calls you ‘Curly.’”

Sherlock groaned a bit. He did not want to take on the role of interrogator with the girls. “I really haven’t spoken Ukrainian for a long time.” He tried to back out of the idea.

“I’m not asking you to stay involved with the case. Just come over and interpret as best you can. The other interpreter will be there too if you get into any trouble with the language.”

“Why would I get in trouble with the language? I can speak perfect Ukrainian!” Sherlock grimaced, knowing he had shown his hand. He’d walked right into that one.

“So just come and spend a little time talking to the girls. I’ll get a sketch artist in there, and we’ll see if we can’t figure out how they got into the country.” When Lestrade continued to hear silence he added, “Remember when I got you and John out of jail after your drunken little bender? You owe me.”

“That was ages ago!”

“Yeah, but you still owe me.”

Sherlock growled a little. “I’ll give you no more than one hour.” As soon as he hung up, he texted John.

I’LL BE AT ORMOND SHORTLY.  
MEET ME AT THE FRONT. SH

Sherlock arrived within the hour at the Ormond Street Hospital and was met by John at the front doors, and John immediately began the medical breakdown.

“They’re both on antibiotics as they’re coughing a bit from having the Thames in their lungs, and both are on antibiotics for UTI. They’re going to be here for a few days while they get some of their medical issues sorted. Otherwise bright and alert and wanting to see you again.”

Sherlock pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. He was not certain why John insisted on giving him such irrelevant medical detail. “Me? Why would they care about me?” he asked.

“People tend to bond with their rescuers. Especially children.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to have to put up with that, am I? Where’s Lestrade?”

“Upstairs with the girls and the interpreter.” John said as they approached the elevator. “Sherlock—“ John hesitated and cleared his throat.

“What else about their conditions?” Sherlock asked tersely. “You know something more. What haven’t you told me?”

“Enough said for now.” John said simply.

Lestrade was waiting at the nurses’ station when Sherlock and John walked out of the lift, and he and John led Sherlock to the girls’ room.

Sherlock was amazed to see the Anichka sitting up and so alert when he had given her up for dead the day before. Ionna was sitting on the bed with her, both absorbed in a game on a tablet. He had not remembered that they looked so remarkably different as if they were not even related, but both had been more like drowned rats the day before. Whereas Ionna’s eyes were brilliantly blue and she had thick, wavy golden hair, Anichka’s eyes were brown as was her hair. Different fathers he immediately assumed.

Ionna immediately ran to him and threw her arms around him which startled him. _Curly!_ He never liked it when he was given an embrace that he did not initiate. It was a violation of his personal space. Then too there was the fact that she was a child. Ionna took his hand and pulled him to the bed, quickly explaining to her sister in their native tongue that Sherlock was the one who had saved them both.

Anichka got up onto her knees and threw her arms around his neck, giving him a kiss on the cheek. _Curly!_

He gave Anichka an awkward pat on the back and gently untangled her from him. First thing he would do is tell them his real name.

There was a woman in the room whom he knew instantly was the Ukrainian translator. She was matronly and stern and wore a few pieces of regional clothing and jewelry. _Particular to small, yappy dogs and Crufts dog shows. Plays Bridge on Tuesdays but not a good player. Grown children. Divorced. Nursing a recent root canal._ He turned to Lestrade who was just behind him. “Get rid of her.”

The woman gasped and frowned at Sherlock. “Rude!”

“Look at you. Even I wouldn’t want to talk to you.” Sherlock snipped.

The woman looked at Lestrade for confirmation. “I guess your services aren’t needed after all. Sorry.” She grabbed up her purse and scowled at Sherlock as she nearly stomped out of the room.

“Do you want me to go too?” John asked. “I don’t exactly speak Ukrainian.”

“No, you’re a doctor and they know you.” He turned to John but spoke in Ukrainian for the girls. _This is Doctor Watson. He helped to rescue you yesterday._ Even so, both girls kept hold of Sherlock, but they nodded to John in thanks.

“Looks like you’ve made a couple of new friends.” Lestrade smiled. He knew this was terribly awkward for Sherlock and was actually enjoying watching the consulting detective squirm a bit. “The sketch artist will be here in about thirty minutes. See if you can get the girls to talk a bit before then. And Sherlock, go easy on them. You’re not talking to adults. These are children.”

“I know they’re children.” He said tersely.

He pulled up a chair and sat down, and Anichka immediately sat in his lap. He moved her off and said very firmly that he wanted both girls to sit on the edge of the bed and that they would have a talk. Although he thought that perhaps Anichka was likely sincere in her desire to be comforted by being so close to him, he was also keenly aware that both girls may have learned inappropriate sexualized behaviors for their age, and he needed to distance himself from any possibility that they were projecting those behaviors onto him no matter how innocent the younger one seemed.

The first thing he did was tell them that his name was Sherlock, not Curly, and he asked them to repeat his name several times until they could both say it with ease. That issue out of the way, he proceeded to assure them that they were not in trouble and that he was there to try to help them. His first question to them, however, was greeted with silence. Ionna put her arm around Anichka and pulled her protectively close. Sherlock caught Anichka’s quick side glances at Lestrade.

“They won’t talk if you’re in here.” Sherlock said.

“But I have to be in here.” Lestrade said. “Tell them I’m friendly. I won’t hurt them. I helped in their rescue.”

“No you didn’t.”

Lestrade swore under his breath and walked out leaving Sherlock and John alone with the girls, and John pulled up a chair near Sherlock and sat down.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the girls and immediately told them that he was not with the police, and he removed all the contents from his pockets for them to inspect. They inspected every element carefully – his keys, his billfold, his smartphone. They scrolled through his smartphone pictures and came to a picture of an older couple. His parents, he told them and they said the words _Babusya_ and _Didus’_ , which was not accurate as they were not grandparents, but Sherlock did not contradict them. It was not important. Anichka thought they had especially kind faces. They wanted to know about all the pictures on his phone, especially about the pictures of Molly Hooper. Sister? No. Girlfriend? Very good friend, and that was as much as he cared to divulge about any of the pictures. Not only that, but he did not want them seeing images of crime scenes he had photographed. He quickly took his phone back and told them it was private.

They examined everything in the billfold, wanting to be certain there was nothing hidden. He asked them what they were looking for. They responded that they were looking for his police identification, and he told them that he was not a policeman. He tried to explain that although he sometimes/often helped the police, he worked independently to solve crimes and that the police called on him when they were not smart enough to figure it out. He tried to put them at ease with a little “stupid police” humor, but they were not amused and that just made the moments more awkward.

He suspected that Anichka might be more open than Ionna, and he turned his attention to her and asked her where her mother was. Anichka responded that she was dead. Her brown eyes filled with tears but Sherlock did not trust the tears. Children were often better at manipulating emotions than adults.

_How did she die?_

_He killed her._ Ionna nearly spat.

 _Who killed her?_ He asked. _Your father?_

 _Her boyfriend._ Ionna continued. _He was a policeman._

If she was telling the truth, that explained her concern with Lestrade and the police force in general.

_Did you see him kill her?_

Ionna shook her head. _I didn’t have to see it. I knew it. He was terrible man and we hated him._

 _And what happened after that?_ He asked.

 _He ran because he was guilty and everyone knew he was guilty. They’re all corrupt._ She looked at Lestrade through the window. _They’re all corrupt. Him too._

Sherlock shook his head sternly. _He’s one of the finest in Scotland Yard, and he’s a fairly decent human being too, and if he could understand what you just said, I would have you apologize at once._

Now tears came to Ionna’s eyes and she said bitterly, _You don’t know them like I do._ She then let loose an astonishing string of swear words that startled him simply because they came from someone so young, and he asked her to try to tell her story without swearing. Anichka frowned at him and let loose a similar string of swear words about the police, but her words came out nearly screaming in anger.

John immediately motioned for them to calm down, and in her anger, Anichka made a vulgar gesture at him. “Don’t need to know the language for that one.” John said.

Sherlock stood up suddenly and clasped his hands behind his back. He was immediately stern and commanding. _Apologize to Dr. Watson now._ When Anichka started to make the same angry gesture at Sherlock, he shook his head and gave her a stern glare, snapped his fingers and cleared his throat. This one was a firecracker. _Now, Anichka._

Anichka lowered her gaze and barely mumbled, _Sorry._

Sherlock turned to John. “She apologized.” Then he turned back to the girls. _If I hear one more swear word, I will get the hospital soap and wash your mouths out._ He was not actually certain he had the wherewithal to carry out his threat, but he was not backing down either. _I should also warn you now that I have the unique ability to know when someone is lying to me or trying to trick me, so don’t even start. Do we have an understanding?_ He cut an imposing, angular figure, and Anichka was the first to break down into tears. He did not want to make deductions about them and scare them, but neither was he willing to tolerate any insubordination. When Ionna started to cry as well, he had a moment of panic. Had he been too stern? He turned to John and shrugged as if to say, “I have no idea what just happened.”

“Sherlock, what the hell—“ John started, but Sherlock motioned him quiet.

Anichka turned to her sister and snuggled close for comfort. _Is that policeman going to send us back to the Ukraine?_ Ionna asked tearfully.

 _We’ll run away if he tries to send us back!_ Anichka sobbed.

 _He doesn’t have control over that. He only wants to know how you got into the country and who locked you in that yacht. He wants to catch the bad guy and put him in jail. That’s what he does. That’s what I do. Catch the bad guys and make sure they get punished._ He tried to smile reassuringly to them, but they were not convinced. He sat down again and put himself slightly lower than their eye level.

 _Where is your father?_ He asked.

 _He left when Anichka was little. Mother said he went to find work, but he never came back._ Ionna said.

Whereas he could not say for certain that they were not sisters without an actual DNA test, he could surmise with some certainty that their mother was a prostitute. He suspected they were half sisters and that one of their mother’s clients had killed her. They had known a string of men coming into their tiny flat. Some came back more often. Some were there when she was not there. At least two of them had made sexual advances on the girls when the mother was not home or was passed out high or drunk.

John handed them a box of hospital tissues, and he got up and gently rubbed Ionna’s back, but she shrugged away from his touch.

“John, do sit down and don’t touch them.” Sherlock said simply.

“Grow a little compassion for once.” John said. “They’re children, and you’re a bloody awful interrogator.” Nevertheless, John returned to his chair.

Sherlock said. “You don’t know how many grown men have stroked their backs and told them how pretty they were. They don’t know the difference between compassion and being plied for sex.” Sherlock took a deep breath and said quietly, “Your heart is in the right place as always, but they don’t understand that.”

There were revelations in interrogations that he was prepared to hear, but he was not prepared to hear what the two girls offered, and the more they said, the more he felt his anger welling up inside, and it was all he could do not to let that anger manifest outwardly. He finally said that he needed to excuse himself for a moment but that he would be back in a few minutes. He asked John to stay with them as he walked out of the hospital room and past Lestrade without a word. He took deep breaths to try to calm himself. Lestrade followed him. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock held up his hand to silence Lestrade and his breathing became more forced. Suddenly it was too much, and he groaned and hurried into the men’s restroom and vomited into the nearest toilet. As he had not eaten yet that day, however, it was all dry heaves, but there was little he could do to stop the spasms for a few minutes. He had seen bodies in all stages of decay and had never flinched, not even at the smell, but hearing what the girls had endured and assuming what they had probably endured had completely turned his stomach. Lestrade waited for him by the sinks.

“Everything come out all right?” Lestrade asked gently.

Sherlock walked out of the stall. His eyes were bloodshot and brimmed with moisture from the exertion, and he quickly wiped his face and washed his hands. “If I ever find out there is anyone at Scotland Yard who is connected with human trafficking out of the Ukraine, I will show no mercy.”

“Neither will I.” Lestrade said. “So, you think there might be a connection?”

“Hard to say at this point. They’re pretty scared right now. One thing for sure: they both need a pregnancy test, if they haven’t already been given one.”

Lestrade swore to himself. “The little one, she can’t be more than ten years old.”

The sexual exploitation of the girls was not the only revelation that Sherlock had that day. John explained later, “Both girls tested positive for HIV, but Ionna’s may be more advanced.”

“Born with it?”

“Possibly. Or they both contracted HIV through sexual contact. I don’t know that they’ve ever received any medical treatment for it. Perhaps that’s why their traffickers were trying to dispose of them. Tainted goods.”

Sherlock was not convinced that was the right idea, but he allowed John his moment. “Why go to the trouble of destroying a yacht just to get rid of two young girls?”

“Maybe the yacht was being used as…I don’t even want to think about it.” John shuddered.

“Can you get some samples for DNA testing?” Sherlock asked.

“No problem.” John said.

“Good. Take the samples to Barts and I’ll have Molly send them off.”

Sherlock had learned that the girls’ mother had been murdered. They had been placed in a state-run orphanage as no relatives could be found who were willing or financially able to take them. The orphanage, however, had proven to be little more than a gateway for human trafficking for most of the girls, and mostly ones who had reached the age of eighteen and were no longer wards of the state. Those girls were essentially thrown onto the streets with little hope of any real life. The issue with Ionna and Anichka, however, was that they were terrified of being found by their mother’s killer, and they had run away from the orphanage, only to be caught by policemen who were involved in trafficking. Child brides were highly sought in Middle Eastern countries, especially Saudi Arabia, and he suspected that might have been their intended ultimate destination.

“Now what happens to them?” John asked.

Sherlock shuddered and took a deep breath. “If a group of Tory MPs get their way, they would be deported for their diseases. The girls aren’t going to trust anywhere the country tries to place them temporarily. Probably will just run first chance they get. They don’t want to go back and I don’t blame them.”

“What do you suggest?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock grimaced. He really did not want to be any more involved than he was, but it was too late for that, and there was no turning back.

***

Sherlock stood on the front steps of his parents’ country manor house in the Devon countryside. It sat on several acres of prime land surrounded by small patches of forest. Ionna and Anichka stood next to him, each clutching a small bag of gift items and clothing they’d received from charities and while in the hospital. The door opened and his mother greeted him quickly and, then looked down at the girls. “Come in, come in.” she said as she stepped aside. The girls quietly crossed the threshold, and his mother said softly, “This really isn’t the best of times, Sherlock.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you and Dad fighting?”

“Your timing is just not good.” She said with a bitter edge in her voice as she ushered him in.

Immediately they were met with his father who was wearing a red bow tie with little LED lights. He grinned at them and offered them his hand, bowing to each of them as if they were princesses.

“Didus’?” Anichka turned to Sherlock.

“She called you ‘grandfather.’” Sherlock said, and he nodded to Anichka and winked. He pointed to his mother. “Babusya. Grandmother.”

“I’m _not_ a grandmother.” His mother said. There was an edge to her voice, but he dismissed it. He did not know if it was an underhanded remark directed at him not giving her a grandchild or if she just did not want to be called grandmother by the two girls.

He set a box on the kitchen table. “Flashcards. They’re going to start learning English and you’ll start learning Ukrainian, and somewhere you’ll meet in the middle. We’ve been working on a few words and phrases, but they’ve no comprehension of grammar or syntax. They’ll help you, and you’ll help them. I suggest with the nouns that you pin them to the appropriate item. If they want something, make them learn the word for it.”

“I think I still have some of your infant school readers in the attic.” His mother said. “Father can get them down.”

“And they’ll need more clothes. Conservative dress, please. And do watch their behavior. They have been exposed to things that are unnatural for their age. I don’t know if they will act out, but they might.” He placed a bag of X-large puppy pads on the counter. “And the younger one, bit of a bed wetter. I suspect it’s psychosomatic, but you might need these to protect the mattress.”

“I wish I’d thought of that when you had your stage of it.” His mother said simply.

Sherlock set a bag of various bottles of drug cocktails on the counter with a dosage schedule. He would explain it later.

He cleared his throat and was glad the girls did not understand English. He bent down to Anichka. _It is safe here for you and Ionna. No one will come after you._ He motioned Ionna to him. _If you are not happy or if something is wrong, you will call me on the IPhone I gave you and we will talk about it. You are both safe here. Someone will always be in your life now to love you and take care of you like you’re supposed to have. I promise. The old life is over._ He briefly touched each of their cheeks, then stood up and looked down at them in the imposing, authoritative way that he could. _I want you girls to promise me that you will not run away from here. And no swearing. Are we in agreement on that?_ When they both nodded and crossed their hearts, he gave them a quick wink.

He stayed with them through tea and encouraged them to eat as much as they wanted of the feast his mother set out. Even so, the girls ate like little birds. They were not used to so much food being available or even food of such quality. If they wanted anything they had to say, “please may I have” in English before asking for the item. He would tell them the item’s name in English, and then they would put it together.

While the girls helped clean up after tea, Sherlock and his father went outside for a smoke. Mr. Holmes smoked a pipe on occasion but never in the house. Sherlock had given up cigarettes a few months before but he could not resist being near the burning tobacco of someone else’s habit.

“Dad, I promise, it’s just temporary.”

“Really, son, we don’t mind.” He said. “We’ll take good care of them, I promise.”

“I just need them to be in the safest place I know until the government makes arrangements for them to stay in country and find them a permanent home.”

“It’s no problem,” he assured him with a kind smile.

“Mum doesn’t seem too happy about it.” He said.

“It’s not that, Sherlock. She doesn’t mind about the girls. She minds about me. Always gets this way this time of year. It’s the anniversary.”

“Your anniversary is in the spring.” Sherlock said.

“Not that anniversary.” He said. “The anniversary of when I was unfaithful.”

Sherlock knew of the event, but it had happened before he was born, and although he believed it was true, it did not reflect the truth he knew about his father – a father who had always been faithful to his mother and a good dad. He did not relate to the other person. As the incident had happened when Mycroft was quite young, Mycroft had seemed basically unaffected by it, but he also knew that Mycroft knew more details of the event. It was something that was never talked about, and he thought his mother had moved on from the event. After all, they had been married for nearly fifty years, and it had been over forty since that event.

“I thought she forgave you for that.” Sherlock said incredulously.

“Oh she did a long time ago. But it’s like a little splinter that you know is there and you can’t quite find the end of it to pluck it out. So it just needles you every now and then.”

Sherlock turned to his father. “Why did you have an affair?”

“Because I was a fool.” Was all he said, and they stood in silence for a moment before his father asked quietly, “Will you be off to the Ukraine then?”

“Probably.” Sherlock said.

“Let me know when you get back so that I can stop worrying.”

Mr. Holmes built a fire that evening and brought a few board games from the attic that did not necessarily require any understanding of English to play since they involved moving pieces around a board by the number rolled on the dice. They had animated DVDs of early Disney classics including Bambi, and the girls sat enthralled as if they’d never seen an animated film before, but both were in tears at the end. Anichka sat up on her knees and began sobbing, her hands pressed to the television. “Mama. Mama.”

It took an hour of Mrs. Holmes rocking the girl to quiet her. She had rocked Sherlock in the same chair when he would have his meltdowns as a child. Mr. Holmes pulled Ionna into his lap and held her tenderly, but she tried to be stoic, and there was a terrible language barrier. He tried to apologize for showing that film. She tried to tell him that Anichka was four years old when their mother was killed, but all he and Mrs. Holmes could do was to try to comfort the children as best they could. Sherlock stood by the fireplace with his back turned to them. He knew he was completely inept at giving the type of emotional comforting his parents were offering the girls, and it made him slightly uncomfortable to even be in the same room with them. He would not allow himself to truly care about them. They were simply pieces of a case he was working on. The girls were completely safe now, and he was itching to remove himself from his parents’ home.

“Sherlock, pick out a bedtime story to read to the girls.” His father said quietly.

“You haven’t got any Ukrainian literature, and I really need to be getting back to London.” Sherlock said. It was a poor excuse and he knew it. Just at the word “London” both girls looked up at him as if sensing he was getting ready to leave.

“Read from one of the Richard Halliburton books. You used to like those when you were their ages.” His father said.

Sherlock sighed deeply and rolled his eyes but pulled a book from the shelf. Richard Halliburton’s Complete Book of Marvels. _I am to read you a bedtime story, but if you don’t want one, that’s fine._ He said.

But they did want him to read a story. He sat down on the sofa and they both got up and curled up next to him, one on each side. He turned to Anichka. _If you need to use the bathroom in the night, just get up and use it. It’s fine. No one will get angry or punish you. They will leave the hall and bathroom light on for you. You don’t have to be afraid here. And if you have an accident, no one will be angry. And you don’t have to be afraid to tell Didus’ or Babusya about it. They will not be angry. Ever. Okay?_ He smiled a little to her and she nodded. Damn. He could feel his heart getting involved, and he could not stop it. There was something especially about Anichka that made his protective instincts come to the surface.

He read slowly to them as he had to translate as he went along. The book had lots of photographs and sketches of Halliburton’s adventures, but he was only about six pages into the first chapter when he realized that both girls were asleep at his side, and he closed the book quietly and set it on the coffee table. Ionna was nudged awake and sleepily led to Sherlock’s old bedroom. Sherlock picked up Anichka and was about to carry her to Mycroft’s old room, but Ionna insisted that she and Anichka always slept together, and as soon as he laid Anichka in bed beside Ionna, Ionna curled up behind her sister and wrapped her arm around her, drawing her tightly close. His old bed was only a twin, but it would do for two young girls who refused to be separated.

 _Sherlock?_ Ionna whispered. _Will you go to the Ukraine and find the man who killed our mother?_

 _If I go, I will see what I can find._ He responded.

She reached out to him and he allowed her to take his hand. Her eyes filled with tears. _Please when you go, please find my baby. I don’t know where they took her. Please. You are my hero._ She started to cry softly, but she gripped his hand harder, her eyes pleading with him in desperation.

News that she had already given birth to a child at her young age was not what he had ever expected to hear. He wanted to tell her that he was not a hero, that he was just doing his job, but a lump rose in his throat and all he could do was nod in acknowledgement.

His mother walked him to his car a few minutes later. “I always knew you would be good with girls.”

“You’re implying daughters, if I ever had children, but if I ever have children, they will be boys.”

“Oh Sherlock, there are some things of which you are remarkably ignorant.”

That stung him a little. Mycroft had so often called him stupid and disappointing when they were growing up, and his mother’s words seemed to echo that sentiment. What bothered him after so many years was that it still bothered him.

“Ignorant of what?"

His mother patted his cheek and smiled gently. “Your heart is wound too tightly to raise a son. The sex of the child brings balance to the heart of the father. That’s why you’ll have a daughter, to soften your heart.”

“What? Utter nonsense!”

“No.” she continued adamantly. “The father determines the sex of the child by the condition of his heart. It’s true! With a woman it doesn’t really matter about the sex of the child so much because she’s the mother. She carries it and nurtures it with her own body, but father is an outsider to that experience.”

“Mummy, that is the most preposterous, unscientific thing you have ever said.”

“When I evaluate my friends and their children by that criterion, I am about 95% accurate. Science can hypothesize and theorize, but math never lies. Never. And I should know math, shouldn’t I?” She said nonchalantly. “Higher math was never your forte.” When she saw the shocked look on his face she added, “Sherlock, I don’t mind having granddaughters. Really I don’t, but I haven’t got unlimited time left on this earth, so if you could be a bit quicker about it, I’d be ever so appreciative.”

“Inappropriate!” He said sharply.

He began to doubt his decision to bring the girls to his parents’ home. He was never a good mix with children, even when he had been a child. A boy might at least have something in common, but young girls…he had little to no idea how to relate.

“I so wanted Mycroft to be a girl.” She continued dismissively. “But your father is too much of an old softie. So I got boys.” She rubbed his back a little. “But it doesn’t matter, son. Grandson or granddaughter is fine. I have no preference, but I just know it will be a girl.”

He rolled his eyes and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Mummy, it’s time for you to forgive Dad once and for all and let it go.”

She patted his cheek. “Sherlock, that is none of your business.”

“And neither is my progeny yours.” He said.

“Give my best to Molly.” She said.

He was not certain who had won that round but he slightly favored that she had which he found annoying. Regardless, he had found the girls a safe haven, although he knew that they would begin the bonding process, making it more emotionally difficult to separate them into a more permanent home later. Then again, he knew nothing about children other than his own childhood with Mycroft, and he assumed that was not a normal relationship anyhow.

“Mary and I would gladly take the girls if we had another bedroom,” John had told him, and Sherlock would have liked them to be placed there, but he had not wanted them to ever feel as if they were being placed there to be babysitters. No, it was better that they were placed where they were the only two children in the home. He knew his parents would provide the structure the girls needed as well as give them the nurturing that had largely missed. His father was the teddy bear – good for the cuddles and games, and his mother was the one who would keep them in gentle line. He did actually admire his parents, even if he could not tell them.

He returned to 221B Baker Street just past midnight. The flat still was not back in the order he would have liked, and he had the break-in mystery to solve as well as finding the culprit behind trying to murder the girls. The latter was a mystery that he knew stretched all the way to the Ukraine, and he was determined to solve it, which meant he would have to go undercover for a while. If he went MI6, the government would pay for his time. If he went on his own, it was out-of-pocket and the government might even disavow knowledge of him being there. Nevertheless, going undercover in the Ukraine was going to be a necessity, and it was not one he was looking forward to.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock received a text early in the morning, and he squinted at his phone, his room mostly dark still in the early hours. Molly was either working very late or very early. Nevertheless she had awoken him.

OMAX 40X-2000X BUILT-IN 3.0MP USB DIGITAL CAMERA  
COMPOUND BINOCULAR MICROSCOPE  
WITH REPLACEABLE LED LIGHT  
WITH DOUBLE LAYER MECHANICAL STAGE AND  
COAXIAL COARSE/FINE FOCUSING KNOB  
ON SALE 50% OFF AT AMAZON

That was her recommendation for a replacement. His previous microscope had not been USB, and he immediately liked the idea of being able to hook it to his computer and view things on a larger screen. He would invest in a large monitor. In fact, he was thinking of investing in a desktop computer. He’d already secured a new laptop. He was not certain he would replace the television since he really did not watch it anyhow. He could live-stream his news through the computer, and even then that was probably more news than he wanted.

EMAIL ME THE LINK

He set his phone down, groaned and rolled his eyes. He picked up the phone again and texted,

THANK YOU

Pleasantries. He still was not good with them nor did he immediately think to give them. However, it was useless to attempt to sleep again. Once his sleep was disturbed, there was no returning to it. He got up and ready for the day.

Mycroft arrived within two hours with replacement files to find Sherlock in a dressing gown sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee whereas Mycroft was impeccably dressed for the day. Mycroft scanned the flat briefly. “Sorry about the damage but I daresay, it does appear to be an improvement.” He dropped the packet of files onto the table and added, “Delivering them myself this time. Try not to lose them.”

Sherlock barely looked up from his newspaper. “And if I’m still not interested?”

“Because you’re playing Daddy to two little Ukrainian gypsies? Oh that’s right. You palmed them off on Mummy and Dad. How very inconsiderate of you when you have a perfectly good, unused bedroom upstairs. Or are you keeping it for sentiment?”

“Mummy and Dad were willing to do it. Why is that inconsiderate? They could have said no.”

“They never say no to you, brother dear.”

“You’re being obtuse. Spit it out.” Sherlock said.

“You know what anniversary this is.” Mycroft said.

“The affair happened before I was born. Why should I care? It has nothing to do with me.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and shook his head slightly in disbelief. He knew and remembered things that Sherlock was never privy to. His parents had been on the verge of divorce when it was discovered that his mother was pregnant with Sherlock. Instead they decided to try to work out their marriage, but there was something more to it.

“She was the housekeeper, you know. From Australia. She returned to her home country afterwards.”

“Yes, I know. Never met the woman. Again, not my concern.”

“She returned to Australia with a tidy sum of money, shall we say. Of course, I was only a small lad at the time and wasn’t privy to the amount, but it’s safe to assume she was bought off.”

Now Sherlock looked up. “Nothing to do with me.” He was determined for his statement to be true.

“Actually, it does.” Mycroft said simply. “Because she was with child, Sherlock. A boy, to be precise.”

Sherlock’s countenance immediately dropped. This was not something he wanted to deduce, but the implications instantly exploded in his brain. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because he married and fathered a child. Our father is a grandfather.”

Now it all detonated in Sherlock’s brain, a mushroom cloud of unwanted and unexpected information. He suddenly also understood why his mother had been so insistent that she was not a grandmother. She had not included his father because she knew that he was a grandfather. And then he understood why his bringing the girls there was perhaps not a good idea. That also told him that the revelation of a grandchild was probably a recent event, which meant that either his father was in touch with the mysterious half brother or that Mycroft had informed them. He stood up and faced his brother. “I have a half—“

“Brother.” Mycroft finished. “And a niece. Five years old, as I understand. We’re both uncles. Isn’t that perfectly delightful?”

“How long have you known?”

“About him? Pretty much always although he disappeared under the radar for a while. He has tried to get into Britain but has been refused entrance. He even changed his identity once, but he was caught at Heathrow and detained and sent home on the next flight. I don’t think he wants to cause trouble, but another Holmes in this country…well, not the best idea.”

“Why was he detained, and why is he being denied entry?”

“Some trouble with the law down under.”

“And that’s where he is now? Australia?”

“Closer than you think. Munich.”

“If this is true, why have you kept this information from me my entire life?”

“Need to know, and you didn’t. No need to upset the balance, but you did by bringing the girls to Mummy and Dad. You just act and never think about the consequences.”

“Perhaps if I’d known this information sooner, I would have reconsidered my options.” He snapped. “His name?”

“He goes by Ford Holmes.” Mycroft said.

“Goes by? What is his full name?”

“Sherrinford Alexander Earnest Holmes. Only child. He was born thirteen months before you. He’s a widower. His wife passed away approximately two years ago. His mother never married and passed away when he was twenty-two. Dad apparently kept in touch because he paid for his university degree and medical school and sent him birthday and Christmas gifts for many years. I don’t think mummy knows about all of that, so best keep it to yourself. I don’t think Ford wants anything except to meet Dad in person and to meet his two half brothers. But of course a happy little family reunion with a long lost half brother...Mummy will never approve.”

Sherlock’s mind was reeling. This was not the kind of information he needed at this hour of the morning when he had so many other issues in his life. “You do that on purpose, you know.” His eyes narrowed at Mycroft. “Withholding information just to make me look stupid. Always have done it and always will. Always trying to be superior.”

“My brain is superior.” Mycroft said dryly. “Anyhow, that’s not why I came.”

“No, you came to deliver the files and ambush me with information about our family. Well, you’ve done your duty, and now I’d like to read my paper and finish my coffee in peace, if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and started to leave, but he turned back and said, “One more thing, Sherlock. Don’t try to contact Ford. It will only upset Mummy.”

“Why would I try to contact him? I’ve lived my entire life without knowledge of him. He means nothing to me.” Sherlock snapped open his paper and started to read. Sensing the conversation was closed, Mycroft turned and left the flat. The moment Sherlock heard the front door of 221B close, however, he set his paper aside and went to his laptop. He brought up a search engine and typed in the name:

SHERRINFORD ALEXANDER EARNEST HOLMES

The search engine immediately brought up several pages of links, most of which led to published medical papers or events where he was a keynote speaker. He did an image search, but it came up empty except for pictures of himself.

“Useless search engine.” He muttered.

He brought up one of the published medical works under Dr. Ford A.E. Holmes and began to read through it. He was immediately taken aback by its concise brilliance. An enviable brilliance. Ford’s writing was so dense with information that Sherlock looked away a few times while his brain processed it. This writing and research was Nobel Prize worthy.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft had always assumed they had inherited their abilities from their mother, even though they felt as if they had far surpassed her even at young ages, but on reading Ford’s work, Sherlock knew their common denominator in brilliance was their father. Their father had always downplayed his intelligence as if he was ordinary, and certainly that’s how Sherlock and Mycroft had always treated him. But what if they had always been wrong? That was a startling, shocking thought that could threaten to topple the presumptions they had held all their lives. Of course, Ford’s mother could have been a genius, but it was more likely that their father had produced three genius sons.

He knew that there was nothing he uncovered that Mycroft did not already know, and he also knew that Mycroft had even more information that was being withheld. What crime had Ford committed that would deny him entry into Britain? Even so, Sherlock all at once felt completely ordinary by comparison, and it was not a particularly comfortable realization. Not only did he feel ordinary, but his career path in assessment with Mycroft and Ford seemed positively mundane. He would have to up his game in life. Yes, he got a high out of solving crimes, but he needed to find something that would be of lasting, true importance. He should be writing scientific papers and publishing them, all based on his deductive reasoning. Better yet, he should write a book on forensic deductions. Perhaps it would become the standard textbook for forensic pathologists and detectives. No, it had to be even more important. He would write the definitive tome on his life. He would write his autobiography. It was better if he did it anyhow than have an unauthorized biography written by a stranger just for tabloid sales.

His celebrity was becoming an annoyance. He received at least three marriage proposals per week, and he acknowledged none of them, even when he suspected some were sent by reporters just hoping for some sort of sensationalist scoop. His emails were not so much flooded with cases anymore as with messages from fans. Would he speak at their graduation? Would he appear at a charity function? Would he contribute to a philanthropic cause? His Twitter feed was filled with so much nonsense that he was ready to give it up. He avoided Tumblr entirely, and although he had a Facebook account, he rarely used it. He certainly did not accept friend requests from outside his tight circle. Those other people were not his friends and he had no interest in seeing daily posts about their pitiful, dreary lives. He was ready to abandon all social media. He was not sociable anyhow, so he was not certain why he had bothered. None of those outlets were generating real cases. He needed John to sort his email and find new work, despite that fact that they were both currently embroiled in the case of the two Ukrainian girls.

He wondered why the newspapers had not picked up on Ford being his half brother. Obviously Ford knew about him and Mycroft and that there was an extended family in Britain. What trouble had he been in with the law that would have denied him entrance into Britain? And why was not Ford making any public statements about his family? What Sherlock knew was that one day someone would figure it out and bring it into the open, disturbing the lives of his parents as well as his and Mycroft's. He did not need that, and he did not want that for any of them.

He glanced at the envelope Mycroft brought over. He had no interest in examining the contents yet, but his flat had been ransacked once, and he had not yet had time to schedule a security company to come over and install the necessary equipment.

Before heading out for the morning, he stopped by to see Mrs. Hudson, striding in as if he were a family member and not a tenant. She was at her kitchen table still in her nightgown with a cup of tea and morning toast when he strode in unannounced. “Morning!” he said flatly as he opened her freezer and put in the envelope with the files. He then opened her refrigerator and quickly scanned the contents. He pulled out a small container of Greek yogurt, then took one of her spoons. “I’ll bring it back.” He said.

“You’d better.” She said as she handed him an apple from the table, and he was gone just as quickly as he had arrived.

He popped his head back in the door for a moment. “And if you hear any unusual commotion upstairs, do call the police.”

“Define unusual!” she called after him, but he was gone.

At 0900 he met John Watson and D.I. Lestrade at a Scotland Yard impounds lot where the sunken yacht had been moved a few days before. With all the water drained out, it was in the process of drying. Sherlock knew that the evidence was likely too damaged to find the suspect even though the yacht’s owner had been identified, questioned and released.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “I hope your boys haven’t ruined it.”

“I’m giving you first crack at it since you and John saved the girls, but I get anything you find, Sherlock.” Lestrade insisted.

“You do know that evidence could be sitting at the bottom of the yacht basin. Have your boys gone for a dive?” he asked as he and John walked around the hull to examine it.

“Brought up a couple bags full of all sorts of debris and trash. They’re sorting through it, but I’m not terribly hopeful.” Lestrade said.

They came to the break in the hull where the small charge had been set.

“That’s what made it go down so quickly.” John said.

“Yes but why? Except that we were being watched. They knew we were coming and sabotaged the evidence. But why not just move the girls to another location?”

“Someone in your homeless network leaked the information that you were on their tail?”

Sherlock paused for a moment and said quietly, “The thought had occurred, unfortunately.”

“Or perhaps they meant to get the girls out but didn’t have enough time and just had to sink it.” Lestrade said.

“No, that requires pre-thought and planning. They shouldn’t have had enough time to put this all together."

Sherlock and John went up the ladder and onto the stern of the yacht. Lestrade followed not far behind. As they descended below decks, John and Lestrade covered their mouths and noses. The stench of mold, mildew and dank seawater filled their nostrils, but Sherlock did not flinch. Smell was an important skill to cultivate even when the smells were unpleasant. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves as he visually scanned the cabin and galley. He pushed aside some seat cushions and opened the storage bin where Ionna had been found. “The older girl was here.” He said. There were no scratch marks. She had not been locked in. She was likely told to get in and be very quiet. He had been disoriented when underwater in the dark with the yacht topsy-turvy when Anichka had tumbled out of her hiding place on top of him, and now he was not certain which bin she had been in.

Lestrade coughed a little in the acrid stench. The floorboards creaked under them, the finish bubbling up from the brackish immersion. “How long were they kept here, Sherlock?” he asked.

“Not long. A few days at the most. Ionna wasn’t certain. They were given drugs to keep them quiet. That’s probably why Anichka drowned so quickly. She was too drugged to fight the water.”

“Although she has quite the fighting spirit when she’s fully awake.” John remarked. Something caught his eye. “Sherlock, look at this.” John lifted a damp seat cushion revealing a small hypodermic syringe washed up against a crack in the flooring. He gently picked it up and Sherlock opened an evidence bag for it. He reluctantly handed it off to Lestrade. “I’ll be expecting a full analysis and report on anything we find here, Detective Inspector.”

“Of course.” Lestrade conceded.

“When is your new microscope arriving?” John asked.

“Tomorrow.” Sherlock said. “I paid for overnight shipping.” Sherlock pulled out his kit and removed his small magnifying glass and began to take a closer look at several scratches and unusual marks that seemed odd for a simple boat scuttling. A struggle had occurred. With the girls? He could not tell. Adults fighting? Again he could not come to a definitive answer, but he did now that someone was fighting with a blunt instrument as attested to by the dents on the walls.

“Any ideas?” Lestrade asked.

“Not any new ones.” Sherlock admitted. He picked up a soggy bed sheet from the floor and revealed a child’s drawing underneath. He assumed the crayon drawing was done by Anichka. It was a little crude for someone her age. It was a drawing of a woman with two daughters in a sunny field with fluffy clouds overhead. It read simply in Ukranian, _Heaven_. What it told him was that Anichka thought they were going to die and be reunited with their mother in Heaven and that Heaven was a beautiful place.

“This won’t help us solve the case,” Sherlock said. “It's just a child's drawing.  Do you mind if I take it?”

“You know you’re not supposed to take anything.” Lestrade reminded him, but after a moment he sighed reluctantly and nodded his approval.

They spent a few more minutes on the yacht, but Sherlock had seen all he needed to see. John checked his watch once they were back on solid ground. “I’ve got a patient in forty-five minutes. I’ll catch you both later,” John said, and they both nodded to him as he sprinted to his car in the nearby car park.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “Let’s take a walk.”

Lestrade and Sherlock walked off the Scotland Yard premises and down the street to an outdoor vendor selling fresh coffee and bagels. Sherlock bought two cups and handed one to Lestrade, and they continued walking. “My brother’s network is more extensive than Moriarty’s ever was. I’ve managed to elude him more than once, but maybe I’m just older and a little more tired, or maybe I just need a better cover story.”

“Cover story about what?” Lestrade asked. He instantly knew Sherlock was planning something big.

“Who do you know, really know and trust in Interpol? I may need to go to undercover in the Ukraine—not on official business--and I could use some insider help.” He said. “And without my brother’s knowledge or involvement.”

“Sherlock, if you’re thinking of trying to fix this Ukrainian trafficking problem—“ Lestrade began.

“I’d prefer not to go at all even under the most favorable conditions. That’s why I need to talk to someone in Interpol. Someone who isn’t a complete idiot.” Sherlock said.

“If it’s cases you’re needing, I’ve got a backlog I can’t keep up with. Then again, you haven’t looked through the really old cold cases for a long time. How about a nice unsolved 1920s murder?”

“Are you even listening to me?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m listening to a man who has no business thinking of going to a former Soviet Union country just to have an unofficial undercover look around and for what? What’s going on over there is not your problem, and it doesn’t sound to me as if they’ve exactly laid out the welcome mat for you to try to fix it.”

“You’re sounding a bit like Mycroft.” Sherlock said with disdain.

“Well maybe your brother’s right about this one.” Lestrade said. Lestrade took a deep breath and said, “Look, Sherlock, it’s not just about you anymore. You have to consider Molly.”

“Molly? Molly Hooper? What does she have to do with anything?” he asked almost too quickly.

“Yeah, I’m not as incompetent as you think.” Lestrade said. “I finally got up the courage to ask her out, and she made excuses. So I asked again and got more excuses. Then she said she was taken and she showed me a very nice engagement ring on a chain around her neck. I know it’s from you, and don’t bother denying it. That’s why she’s hiding it, isn’t it?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and said quietly, “I’d prefer you kept that deduction to yourself.”

“You could have bothered to tell me before I made a complete arse of myself.”

“Sorry about that. Meant to tell you in time. Of course, we’d like to keep this to ourselves and completely out of the public, especially the tabloids.”

“So do John and Mary know?”

“Not yet. Just my parents and now you.” He was clearly uncomfortable in discussing the details. “Don’t expect my parents to place an announcement in The Times. Moriarty’s network still has little pockets of activity that would like nothing better than to bring me down, and if they find out about her, they will go after her first just to get to me. Secrecy is our shield.”

“And she’s okay with all this secrecy business?”

”She understands what’s at stake.”

“Makes it a bit difficult to plan a wedding though. So have you set a date?” Lestrade looked hard at Sherlock who suddenly seemed to have drawn a blank on that question. “An engagement is usually followed by wedding planning and preparations.”

“Never discussed it, and I don’t wish to now.” Sherlock said. He was clearly uncomfortable talking about his private life.

Lestrade clapped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Any extra protection you need to keep her safe, let me know.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock said simply.

“Sherlock, I’m just saying it’s not all about you now. Everything you do affects her. You’re not MI6 anymore, and you can’t just run off to deal your brand of justice in a former Soviet country. You could get yourself in the kind of trouble that no one can get you out of, and that affects Molly. When you get engaged, it’s time to start thinking of settling down.”

 _Settling down._ Lestrade’s comments haunted Sherlock. It had not exactly occurred to him that when he had proposed in his off-beat way to Molly that it had meant his life would necessarily change. He simply assumed that it was his promise of love and exclusivity to her, but that they would continue in their professional lives regardless. She would continue at Barts, and he would continue in his work. _Unchanged._

“ _Marriage changes people in ways you can’t even imagine._ ” Mrs Hudson had one time said to him regarding John and Mary just before their wedding. Sherlock had dismissed it then, but there had been a shift in the Watsons’ relationship, and he could not quite pinpoint what the shift was.

Sherlock would never give up the Baker Street address. That was his office, his place to think. It was not suited for domesticity with a girlfriend or a wife. 

 _Domesticity_. That was the real issue. There was nothing at all domestic about him, and the thought of wedding planning for himself, picking out new china or wall paper or putting together a grocery list was quite frankly boring and rather appalling. Even sharing the flat with John during their tenure together was often an excruciating exercise to his patience. He and John had had many fierce rows until all hours of the night, often bringing harsh words from Mrs. Hudson the following day because they had kept her awake. At least John had had his own bedroom. With marriage Molly would always be in the same bedroom. He would have no privacy. Her space would be his space. They would have to make decisions together about the most mundane things. He didn’t like to share his decision making with anyone. He simply did what he wanted and what had to be done. He could not afford the time or energy to double-check every little thing with her although he did like to inform her if he was to be out of town for any length of time. That was only courteous after all.

He wanted his life with Molly to stay exactly as it was: that they were exclusive and yet lived their independent, professional and private lives. He liked that he had his own bed sometimes, and he liked that he shared her bed sometimes. He liked that they did not have a specific routine. He had to take the time to calm himself. They had not discussed anything at all to do with a wedding, and as long as she did not bring it up, he was not going to either.

“If you stay at my flat too often, my landlady is likely to raise my rent,” Molly said quietly a few nights later as Sherlock met her in her new office at Barts. He set a bag of hot take-out Thai food on her desk.

“Mrs. Hudson might lower mine as a reward _if_ I had an overnight guest.” He mused, and that made her giggle a little. His eyes involuntarily sparkled at her laugh, and he peeled off his coat and gloves and draped them over the back of a chair. He clapped his hands together. “You’ve set up the appointment, then?”

“Yes, you can have a private CPR class this weekend with RN Sean Gladbury. He’s coming in on his day off, so I expect you to pay him well. And try not to be so… so _you_.” She lifted the bag of food and removed a large envelope from beneath it and handed it to him. “The results you asked for. I pushed them through.”

He sliced open the envelope and quickly scanned the report. It was not what he was expecting. “Not related.” He said. “The girls are not biologically related. How is that possible? I thought at least the mother was the tie. I always miss something.” Technically he knew how it was not possible for them to be related, but he found it odd that they considered themselves sisters and were clearly raised as sisters. It made him question whether either of them was related to the one they called “mother.” He wanted a DNA test from the mother’s remains for comparison, but that was one of the areas where he needed help through Interpol. If the local Ukrainian constabulary was as corrupt as Ionna insinuated, getting an accurate answer might prove difficult. The mother’s death might not have been reported as a murder or reported at all. He set the papers on his coat and looked at the boxes and empty shelves. He rolled up the sleeves on his aubergine shirt and asked simply, “Where do I begin?”

Her filing system, he suggested, was inefficient and just sorting that out took a few hours. Then he alphabetized her books by author. He hung a cork bulletin board on the wall to the right side of her desk, and the full-sized replica skeleton was moved to the corner. The right arm fell off, and he cursed as he tried to reattach it, but it had been broken before and badly repaired. There was no reattaching it. He simply draped it over the shoulder.

“Figured out a topic yet for the Royal Society of Medicine?” he asked.

“No.” she said simply.

“Need help with ideas?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Quite.”

“So what are your ideas?”

She groaned and dropped her head onto her desk. “Shut up.”

The presentation for the RSM was not until February, but even so, just the thought of it made her a bit queasy. Her naturally shy nature did not lend itself to public speaking, and the few times in her life she had done it had been completely nerve-wracking. Even taking over some teaching duties at Barts was stretching her comfort zone, but at least she was felt completely at home in her knowledge of those subjects.

“And how was your first official day teaching?” he changed the subject.

“One person didn’t know where the liver was. The liver! I’m going to get them all anatomy coloring books. I had one fainter and one who vomited when we started the fresh cadaver dissection. I almost laughed.” She grinned. “Of course, I had to remain professional.”

“Of course.” He agreed, but they had a private laugh over it.

“They get a lot of fainters in dental school.” Molly added. “There they just get the head and shoulders sitting up on the table.”

“Lucky students!” Sherlock said, and then he said quietly, “Lestrade knows we’re engaged. It’s not your fault. Perhaps we need to let a few more people in. John and Mary. My brother.”

“My mother.” Molly added. “She’ll be a bit put out that you didn’t ask her for my hand. You should probably do that. Even Tom did it.”

“And she approved of _him_?” He asked as he rolled his eyes. Molly shot him a glare, but he playfully shrugged it off with a wink.

Her office was finally starting to resemble a proper office, and he was pleased with his work. He checked his watch. “I should be going.” He put on his coat and gloves and put the DNA files on the girls inside his coat. He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. “You’ll think of something great for the RSM.” He checked that the hallway was empty and then made his way out of her office. Although they might be seen together in the labs or in the morgue when he was investigating a case, they were never seen coming to or leaving the hospital together.

Surprisingly, hospital tongues had never wagged over Sherlock and Molly in all the years they’d known each other partially because she had dated other men and even been engaged for a while. Sherlock was seen as so abrasive and generally rude that no one ever considered anything at all of him. That, he knew, was his current advantage.

Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street and stopped by Mrs. Hudson’s flat to retrieve Mycroft’s file from her freezer. She held out her hand, and he fished in his pocket for the spoon he’d borrowed earlier, and he put it in her hand and then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”

He bounded up the stairs two at a time, then entered the flat and did a quick visual scan. Everything was in the same place he’d left it. He put the kettle on, and while he waited for it to boil, he retrieved Anichka’s crayon drawing from his coat pocket. He carefully unfolded it as it was still damp and he did not want to tear it, and he fixed it to his refrigerator with magnets. He stood back and looked at it just as the kettle finished its boil, and he turned to it and made himself tea.

A new tower computer and 32” monitor were new inhabitants of his living room, and he slipped a Classical CD into the computer’s drive and within moments had beautiful violin music filling the room. He stood completely still and closed his eyes for a moment to let it wash through his soul.

It was just past 2130 hours, and Sherlock sat back in his chair with his fresh cup of tea and opened the files that Mycroft had brought over. The government work that Mycroft sometimes shared managed to provide a flow of income although Sherlock was rarely worried about his income anymore. He had an international reputation and had potential clients from all over the world although he preferred to remain on home soil.

He scanned the paperwork. Although he did not like being under his brother’s thumb on assignment, he had to admit that Mycroft never sent him anything boring, and this was no exception. Domestic government cases were generally little more than a few days of legwork, research and interviews, all the things that Mycroft personally detested doing himself.

It was too coincidental that his flat had been burgled and the original files had disappeared for there not to be a connection. He briefly considered that it somehow related to his half brother but found that idea to be extremely unlikely.

He wondered if he had ever received an email from a Ford A.E. Holmes and had missed it. Surely his attention would have been caught by the word “Holmes” alone. Perhaps if he ever had received one it had gone into his spam folder. Sherlock was not hard to find and could be easily located on line or by his address. He had never received mail from a Ford A.E. Holmes either, so perhaps he did not know about Sherlock or perhaps Mycroft was exaggerating Ford’s attempts to gain entrance into the country.

Clearly the break-in was extremely personal, and he suspected it was someone he already knew, someone who wanted to hurt him by destroying the material things he held most dear. Someone who would have known he had those things to begin with. Someone who had been to his flat. Someone who was watching him and knew his movements.

Mycroft’s case also involved a break-in, but his dealt with an MP’s home during the visit of the Turkish Ambassador where valuable documents were stolen regarding political alliances with Iran. Sherlock would investigate, but he also knew that the thief would eventually expose himself when he tried to sell the documents on the black market. It was only a matter of time. What he wasn’t certain of, however, was whether or not the theft of the documents had been the intention of the burglary or was just a special “gem” of information that was taken. Sherlock mostly believed that the theft of the documents was not the reason he had been burgled. No, it was too personal for that. He had to find the thief before the secret agents of the other countries found the thief.

He texted Mycroft:

I’M ON THE CASE. SH


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock walked into the old shop down the back alley. He had a box tucked up under one arm and a violin case in the other hand. The signage over the door was at least two hundred years old and had the symbol of a violin. Violin makers had been in this shop for that long and longer.

The shop was slightly dark but warmly lit. It smelled of fresh wood shavings and various woods, resin, varnish , and a cup of freshly brewed Earl Grey tea. As Sherlock entered, a small bell attached to the door gave him away, but the elderly man at a work bench did not look up. “Sherlock.” He had an Italian accent but spoke perfect English.

“Maestro Fabrizzi.”

“You don’t come for lessons anymore. Has the pupil surpassed the master?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and shuffled his feet a little. “Of course not, Maestro. I’ve just been quite busy with work.”

“That’s what they all eventually say,” Fabrizzi said as he set down his tools and turned to Sherlock. “Let me see it.”

Sherlock handed him the box, and the older man opened it to find the carnage of Sherlock’s demolished violin. He let out a pained sigh like someone saying goodbye to a beloved pet that had just died.

“You’re welcome to whatever parts you can salvage. There’s nothing to be done, of course.” Sherlock said softly.

“No,” Fabrizzi said. He lifted out a few mangled pieces. “Some people do not respect beauty. Even if I had the inclination to be a burglar, I would never destroy or steal someone’s musical instrument. To do so is to remove a piece of the owner’s soul.” He looked at Sherlock. “You’ll want a replacement, I presume.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. He could have gone to any music shop and tried out an assortment of violins. Violins were readily available all over the city, but he had come to this shop, a shop generally known only to the top violinists in the world. “My life is incomplete without one.” He said.

“No,” Fabrizzi corrected, “life is incomplete without love.” Fabrizzi set the box aside and opened an old violin case and lifted out the instrument and bow. He handed them to Sherlock. “Let me hear you play, Sherlock.”

“This is your Stradivarius, Maestro.”

“I’m not giving it to you, lad. I just want to hear you play. If you come to me asking for my advice for a new violin, you owe me the respect of letting me hear you play.”

Sherlock took the violin and could see the concentration camp number tattoo on the inside of Fabrizzi’s left forearm. Sherlock took a moment to check the tuning, then set bow to strings and began to play. He knew it would have been bad form to attempt to play something flashy and likely show off his potential mediocrity, and so he chose something simple that would display his tone and sound. That is what Fabrizzi always wanted: to make the violin mimic the human voice and soul whenever possible.

Sherlock finished playing and silence fell between the two men. Finally Sherlock said, “Well, as you can hear I have no aspirations for first chair in the London Symphony.”

“What was that piece? I’m not familiar with it.”

“Just a little something I composed for my best friend’s wedding.”

“Not bad. The composition, that is. As always, your technique needs work.”

Normally Sherlock’s instincts would have reacted with a defensive comeback, but when it came to his musicianship, he knew his limitations and dared not contradict the maestro.

“You once played with mathematical, mechanical precision but without any emotional depth.” Fabrizzi said. “You still play with the same precision, but you have allowed some emotion to enhance the musical phrasing. Could it be love?” Fabrizzi did not blink as he watched Sherlock for an answer.

Sherlock met the old man’s gaze for a moment and then looked away. Fabrizzi smiled and gently took his violin from Sherlock and returned it to its case. “I will keep your secret, of course.” He hesitated for a moment and added, “I was quite overcome when I thought you’d committed suicide a few years ago, but in my heart I knew it could not be true. That was not the Sherlock I knew. So I waited. And waited. I almost gave up hope, but I am a survivor of hopeless situations. War changes people. It changes the heart. Whatever war you had to fight in those two years you were supposedly dead changed your heart, and that changed your musical voice. For the better, I might add.”

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat and took a deep breath. “The vagaries of my work deny me the ability to make a firm commitment to taking lessons with regularity, but I admit that I have been remiss. Forgive me, Maestro.”

Fabrizzi waved his hand dismissively. “If you practiced, really practiced and dedicated yourself, you have talent to be a world-class violinist, but I know that is not where your heart lies. That life is not for everyone. Even so, I will work with a student as long as the student desires to learn, no matter his age. Do you still desire to learn from me, Sherlock?”

“Always, Maestro.” He said simply.

He looked up at the row of violins hanging above his head and after a moment chose one and handed it to Sherlock. “Try this one for a few weeks and see if it has a tone you like. If not, bring it back and I’ll give you another to try. We’ll find one that feels right to you.”

Sherlock bowed slightly to him in thanks.

“Sherlock, you won’t make me wait another three years to see you, will you? I’m not getting any younger, and I still have things to teach you, and you still have things to learn.” He said.

“I will make room in my schedule to see you again on a semi-regular basis.” Sherlock said as he packed the violin into his own empty case along with a new bow.

Fabrizzi sighed and rolled his eyes. “If that’s the best you can offer. Do send your parents my regards.”

Sherlock nodded again and headed out of the shop and down the alley to the main street. He returned to 221B Baker Street by cab, and he hurriedly bounded the seventeen steps to his flat and shut the door behind him. He was anxious to test the violin Fabrizzi had recommended, and he could not have removed it any more gently from the case than had it been a newborn infant. The violin smelled of Fabrizzi’s shop, and when he set bow to strings and began to play, the instrument produced a rapturous sound. He stopped and started several times. His old violin had had a very mellow tone, and this one was brighter in the same way a Steinway was different than a Baldwin. It was not a quality he was used to so close to his ears, but it was a quality he liked. He did not know, however, if it was a quality he would love. Taking on a violin was as close to marriage as he’d ever come, because he felt it was a lifetime commitment. His work had always been one wife and his violin the other.

In her flat below, Mrs. Hudson was washing up at the kitchen sink when she heard the violin music from upstairs. Even she knew there was something different about it, but she would never have guessed it was a different violin. She shut off the water and listened for a few minutes and smiled. When he began to play strains of a waltz, she began to dance by herself in her little kitchen.

Sherlock played his loaner violin for an hour, completely lost in his music when he was interrupted by an electronic ring coming through his computer. Someone was trying to reach him through Skype. He instantly knew who the caller was without looking at his screen, and he hung his head with a frustrated groan. _His parents._ He hesitated to answer for a moment, grimacing at the thought of a conversation with them through the Skype technology. Somehow it always proved difficult for them to master, and his patience with them on it was paper thin.

Although his parents were not terribly computer literate, their home was wired for the highest internet and Wifi speeds available due to both Sherlock and Mycroft needing to access the internet while on their visits there, seldom as they were. Initially the signal strength was still poor until the government installed a tower nearby specifically to accommodate Mycroft. After the tower was installed, there was never another issue with speed or service. The government, not his parents, paid for their household service and maintenance, and a government technician was available within two hours if they ever needed help.

Nevertheless, Sherlock answered the call, and his parents’ faces suddenly filled the 32” monitor which was a little startling due to their size.

“Ah, there you, Sherlock! We’ve been trying to reach you all morning!” his mother said.

“Is there a problem? Something wrong with the girls?” he asked.

“The girls are fine!” His father beamed.

As if on cue, Ionna and Anichka squeezed into the picture with beaming faces, both waving enthusiastically. “Hello, Sherlock!” they said in English and in unison. Clearly his mother’s nurturing had worked wonders on their health already as both looked brilliantly happy.

 _Did Babusya take you shopping for new clothes?_ He asked in their native tongue.

Anichka was quick to answer. _And new shoes! Pink!_

 _Sherlock, Didus’ taught me a card trick. Do you want to see it?_ Ionna asked.

 _Some other time._ Sherlock said.

“We’ll be enrolling them in the local school soon. We’ve asked for a little more time before doing so due to the language barrier.” His mother said.

His father suddenly frowned. “Sherlock, we can’t see ourselves anymore. Only you.”

Sherlock groaned quietly to himself. And so it began. His monitor went blank but he could still hear them. “Dad, you turned off your camera. I can’t see you either.”

“No we didn’t.” his mother insisted. “We didn’t touch anything.”

“Just click on the camera icon and turn it back on.”

Suddenly they appeared on the screen again. “Ah, thank you Ionna. Clever girl.”

Damn. Sherlock had had hopes of a brief call due to technological incompetence.

“Sherlock, why don’t you and Molly drive out this weekend and see us and the girls.” His mother said.

“Well, Molly’s quite busy as am I. She’s teaching now and is preparing to speak to the Royal Society of Medicine, and I’ve got several cases.” He turned off his camera.

“Sherlock, what happened? Now we can’t see you, dear.” His mother said.

“Well, you must have turned something off.” He insisted. “Everything’s fine on my end.” He hated lying, but he hated the intrusion also. He almost always ignored their attempts to Skype with him and he only had answered the call this time in case there was an emergency with the girls. He could still see them, of course, and their frantic efforts to solve the problem. This was obviously only a social call, and he was not feeling particularly sociable.

Ionna was clearly trying to help them, but Anichka rolled her eyes and said softly, _Old people are stupid. They should all just die._

Ionna shot her a stern glare and said _Stop it._

Anichka’s words struck Sherlock like ice. He was tempted to turn his camera on again, but he did not want his countenance to give away what he was feeling, because he was suddenly quite angry. Instead he also turned off his microphone.

“Sherlock, can you hear us?” his father asked. They would have only complete silence on their end even though he could hear and see them clearly. His eyes were focused on Anichka. “I think we lost him.” His father added.

Sherlock’s cell phone rang almost immediately. It was his mother. “We seem to have lost you, dear.” She said.

“Yes, I think I will come out this weekend,” he said.

He wanted to go at that moment because clearly there was a problem that was eclipsing his parents and it needed to be dealt with, but it was not practical to go, nor would he leave the apartment for any length of time again without a security system in place.

In truth, however, he did not trust anyone to install his security system but himself and John. There was too much at stake, too many prying eyes into his personal business. Bonded or not, he did not trust any company to do the work. John, however, was not entirely delighted to be recruited into the installation of the security system simply because he felt it was not his area of expertise, nor was he particularly keen to tamper with any electrical wiring, something that also was not his area. Recruiting John into the process, however, gave Sherlock time to discuss a venture to the Ukraine.

“Not really the best political time to be going there.” John said. “I’m surprised our country hasn’t been issued a travel warning already.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.” Sherlock insisted while atop a ladder affixing a camera mount in the corner. While most people thought of him as only capable of complex deductions, he was fairly competent with mechanical issues and complex written instructions. He also had an excellent grasp of computer programming and had some ideas on rewriting some of the software code that came with the system. He was also perfectly comfortable with his toolbox full of assorted tools including an electric drill. On occasion Mrs. Hudson could compel him to make a minor repair in her flat, especially if it required a ladder, but he only did it because she would offer him some sort of freshly baked sweet. Sometimes he was led by his sweet tooth and she knew it. “Their tourism page is still up, after all!” he added.

“The Google car hasn’t even mapped it yet, Sherlock.” John said. “We could get over there and find ourselves in the midst of a civil war, and Mary would be quite put out with you if we got stuck behind their borders for any reason.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes . “Believe me, I’ve been in tighter spots and so have you.”

“Still don’t speak Ukrainian, though,” John said, “and that puts me at a slight disadvantage.”

“They do speak English too, John, and anything they say in their native tongue that you don’t understand, I will translate for you.”

“No, but seriously, Sherlock. How do you expect to go undercover again in the Ukraine?”

“By not going undercover.” Sherlock said simply.

“So you’ll just fly over and start investigating?”

“No, no.” Sherlock said simply. “I’m waiting for an invitation. I’ve put out an offer they can’t refuse.” Sherlock grinned to himself at his own cleverness, and his phone rang as if on cue. “That’ll be Lestrade. Would you mind?”

John stopped working on his parts of the assembly and fetched Sherlock’s phone from the table and handed it to him. “Lestrade. Good news, I hope.” Sherlock listened for a moment and then shook his head. “No, can’t possibly do it tonight, but John and I will be there by 1100 hours. Right. See you then.” Sherlock shut off his phone and continued working on the camera mount.

“Right. Where will we be in the morning?” John asked.

“Scotland Yard. Meeting with Inspector Yuri Dzubenko from Kiev. He’s with Interpol, and my offer has been accepted.”

“What offer? What deal have you made with him?”

“I’m a consulting detective with an international reputation, John. What sort of deal do you think I made with him?”

“To help with some of their unsolved cases in the Ukraine.” John realized. “In exchange for?”

“Access.” Sherlock replied.

John hesitated for a moment, then said, “This isn’t a paying client, is it? Just you wanting to solve the puzzle about the two girls.”

“There is corruption within the police force there, John. And if we can help him find the thread that unravels it all, we’ll be paid well.”

“And why couldn’t you meet with him tonight? I’m available.”

“Yes I know, but I have other plans.” He said simply.

“What other plans?” John asked, but he instantly knew his own answer. “Oh. Romantic plans.”

“Dull. Boring.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped down from the ladder and went directly to his computer. He clicked on an icon and a program opened showing him the view from the camera he had just installed.

“Maybe to you, mate, but not to her.” John said.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I’m rubbish at it, John. She accepts that about me. We’ll probably just sit on the sofa and watch one of those medical documentaries about the life of maggots or flesh eating bacteria. Have you seen the one about the microscopic organisms that live on your skin? Fascinating!” John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock frowned at the gesture. “Oh, and you’re the expert on romance, I take it.”

“I do have loads more experience, yes.” John said. “Take her out for a really nice dinner.”

“And possibly be seen?”

“You’ll have to come out of the closet with her sometime.” John said.

“You could invite us to your place.” Sherlock said simply. “Dinner. With wine and sitting.”

John cleared his throat. “I never thought you’d really want to come.”

“Not really my thing, but she would probably like it.” Sherlock said. He met John’s astonished gaze. “That’s as close to romance as I dare venture. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll ask Mary to set a date.” John said. “Did you just invite yourself to my house for dinner?”

“And tell Mary not to worry about the food. I’m sure I can persuade Angelo to send something around. Getting someone off a murder charge is more or less a lifelong debt owed, although I try not to take too much advantage of it.”

“How altruistic of you.” John said grimly.

John stayed for another two hours while they finished the installation of all the equipment, and it was during that time that Sherlock quietly revealed that he and Molly were engaged and had been since the end of the Trenglman case. After John recovered from his initial and brief shock, he embraced Sherlock and clapped him heartily on the back. Sherlock tensed in the embrace, but he could see that John was genuinely happy for him. He insisted, however, that a wedding was far, far in the future and that they were not rushing to the altar. In effect, there was no reason to get overly excited about the engagement. He assured John that he had not left him out of the loop on the information and that the only others who knew were his parents and probably Mycroft but that the information needed to be kept secret for as long as possible.

John excused himself and left the flat, returning several minutes later with a bottle of champagne just as Mrs. Hudson was bringing up a fresh tray of tea and biscuits.

“Champagne! What are we celebrating?” she asked.

John started to say something but he turned to Sherlock and narrowed his eyes and nodded slightly towards Mrs. Hudson. There was an awkward pause in the room, but Sherlock’s lips remained tightly pressed together. He held his breath which he sometimes did unconsciously when in deep thought or when cornered in a way that set his brain off kilter as had happened when John first called Sherlock his best friend. He suddenly took a deep breath as if remembering his body needed to breathe. He actually needed her to know his secret, if she did not suspect something already, because he needed to broaden and strengthen his ruse in keeping the information out of the public, and for that he needed her help.

It was not entirely news to Mrs. Hudson but she was terribly happy and sentimental towards him with her usual, “Oh Sherlock!” as her eyes filled with tears. "You've finally grown up!" Of course she would keep his secret and protect it with her life, she swore, although he assured her that if it came to that extreme she was free to divulge the information.

Sherlock arrived at Molly’s flat a few hours later to find her soaking in an effusive bubble bath. “Don’t judge me.” She said. “I’ve had a hard day.”  Sometimes that meant she had dealt with dead infants or children, one of the more difficult aspects of her job.

“Headache?” he asked.

“A bit.” She admitted.

“Might be tension. Want me to rub out the knots?” he asked.

“The last time you did that, it hurt like hell.” She said.

“But the endorphins afterwards.” He gently reminded her.

She hesitated a few more moments, then sat up in the tub and drew her knees up to her chest and presented her back to him. He rolled up his sleeves and gently pushed her head forward to rest on her knees. He found his starting place on her bath-warmed back and pressed his thumbs firmly to her skin. It was not a gentle massage but a hard, almost bruising massage. She winced in pain, and within a few moments she was vocally protesting the pain although she allowed him to continue even when she was certain she could not bear it another moment. He knew exactly what muscle group to work, but it was very painful to her, and she groaned with relief when he was done a few minutes later. He kissed the back of her neck tenderly and said, “All done.”

“Thank you.” she said as she leaned back into the warmth of the bath water. She was certain he had left bruising, but a check in the mirror later would not reveal so much as a red mark.

“What food should I order for dinner?” he asked.

“Not hungry.” She said.

For Molly to refuse dinner was rare. “What happened today?” he asked as he sat down on the floor next to the tub. He soaped a washcloth and began to gently bathe her legs.

She shook her head and stared at the ceiling. “What if I’m in over my head at work?”

“So you want to quit already?” he asked.

“I’m not a quitter.” She said. “The teaching part I don’t mind. It’s the other thing. I loathe speaking in public. I’m terrible at it.”

“Glossophobia.” He said. “Fear of speaking in public, and I have every confidence that you will be brilliant.”

“I wasn’t so sure about you at John’s wedding.” She said.

He wrinkled his nose at her. “You doubted me?”

“Worried for you would be more accurate.” she said. “But you rose to the occasion and made me proud. Made us all proud.”

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “And you’ll rise to the occasion too. What’s your subject?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem. Everything I think of, I think they’ve heard it before and it’s just infantile. I’ll be laughed out of the medical profession. I’m just mousey Molly. That’s what they called me in medical school. Sometimes just Mouse.”

He chuckled a little. “Sorry. It’s just a bit difficult to take this completely seriously when you’re up to your chin in bubbles that smell like strawberries.” That made her smile a little and he added. “Enough wallowing in the tub. I’ll make you some hot cocoa.” He got up and started for the bathroom door.

“Thai food.” She said suddenly. “Pad Thai with shrimp. Extra shrimp.”

He turned his head and winked at her. “That’s my girl.”

They later settled onto her sofa while watching a documentary on various infectious skin diseases, their open containers of Thai food on the table in front of them. They both were in dressing gowns and pyjamas. He would stay the night, something he tried to schedule with her at least once per week. In fact, he kept a dressing gown, pyjamas and a few changes of clothes at her place now. She had been curled up underneath his arm, but she rearranged herself and laid her head in his lap.

“Sherlock. If I did bow out of the lecture for the Royal Society of Medicine, you wouldn’t think less of me, would you?”

“You’re not bowing out.” He said firmly.

“But if I did—“

“But you’re not.” He said even more firmly. He gently stroked her hair, playing absently with it as he often did when they were close. They watched the program for a few minutes in silence before he cleared his throat and said, “I’m going to be leaving the country for a bit. It won’t be too long. John will be with me.”

“You’re on a case then? Will it be dangerous?” she asked.

“Always a possibility, I suppose.” He said nonchalantly.

“When will you leave?”

“Perhaps within the week.”

“Will you be able to communicate with me?”

“Not sure, but I’ll send you a message if I can.”

“This isn’t one of your brother’s missions, is it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought. “Mycroft doesn’t approve of this one, but it’s something I started and something I need to finish.”

“Is it about the girls you rescued?”

“Molly.” He said sternly, and she immediately knew not to question him further about the case. Whatever the details, he could not share them with her, and she knew that was for her own protection as well as his. He cleared his throat again. “When John and I return, however, I suspect we’ll have a dinner invitation to the Watsons. Not regarding anything to do with the case but more with our—“

“You told John!” she realized and she suddenly sat up.

He was not entirely certain what emotion would come from her next, and he braced himself. Was she angry? Annoyed? “It was time, and I just wanted to have a place where you and I could go and be with other people and be in a safe place with safe people. Where we can be an ordinary couple, whatever that means. And then John got some champagne and Mrs. Hudson came in on the celebrations… and she knows too now, but I have a plan. Lots of plans. It’s a good thing, I promise.” He had spoken so quickly that he even surprised himself with the rapidity of his words.

She had learned to process his fast speech, and she had no problem catching every word he said. Like a predator stalking its prey, she moved closer, never blinking as her eyes remained steady with his. He backed up slightly, but her kiss was tender and sweet. “Thank you.” she said softly.

“Where is that ring anyhow?” he asked.

“On the chain on the bathroom sink.”

“Put the ring on tonight.” He murmured in her ear. “Wear it all night.”

“Anything else you would like me to wear tonight, Mr. Holmes?”

“Absolutely nothing.” He smiled as he gently stroked her cheek.

The following morning he was already showered and dressed for the day when she finally roused and stumbled into the kitchen in only her dressing gown. He had made breakfast of toast and poached eggs, and her coffee was prepared and flavored just as she liked it. She squinted in the morning light. “You cooked?”

“Don’t ask me to make Beef Wellington or lasagna, but I’m fairly accomplished with eggs and toast.” He grinned.

“It’s a bit domestic of you.” She said as she sat down.

He frowned. “I can be domestic.”

She reached out and took his hand. “Don’t be for me. Don’t ever change, Sherlock Holmes. I like the excitement of you rushing in and out of my life like a whirling dervish.”

He thought about it for a moment and then winked at her. “I’m also fairly adept at microwave popcorn, although once I forgot there were human eyeballs in there too. That was a bugger to clean, poor Mrs. Hudson.” He said it so seriously that Molly was suddenly overcome with a terrible case of giggles. Sherlock often had a dry or morbid sense of humor and was completely unaware of it. When he realized what he had said, he too began to laugh, and they laughed together for a solid ten minutes before either could regain any composure.

Even as he rode in a taxi to Scotland Yard, Sherlock still caught himself on the edge of a fit of giggles several times, and he knew he had to shut that private moment between him and Molly completely out of his mind. He could not remember the last time he’d been so tickled and had laughed with such abandon. It had felt good to laugh like that. He had laughed so hard that he had cried, something that was extremely rare for him, but he had to admit his soul felt so much lighter than it had in a long time.

John, Lestrade and Dzubenko were already waiting for him in a Scotland Yard conference room when Sherlock walked in. Sherlock always considered himself tall, especially next to John, but Dzubenko was 6’8” and towered over Sherlock. He was only six years older than Sherlock, but his hair was prematurely white and styled into 2” spikes, and it made him look somewhat formidable in his height. He was not only physically imposing, but his ice-blue eyes seemed to pierce right through Sherlock. When he smiled, he revealed a full set of crowned teeth. Sherlock noticed his wedding ring and surmised he had been married at least twenty years. A necklace with a crucifix indicated his association with Eastern Orthodoxy. He clasped Sherlock’s hand in his large hands and shook it enthusiastically. “Mr. Holmes, a great honor it is to meet you, sir.” His English was perfect but with a Russian accent.

“Do drop the ‘sir.’ I haven’t been knighted yet although they keep threatening me.” Sherlock said.

Dzubenko laughed heartily for a moment. “My oldest daughter, Elena, is fourteen. She is a big fan of yours. She is always online looking for news of you and your cases, and she reads yours and Dr. Watson’s blogs. She insists that when she is older she will come here and marry you. Raging teenage hormones.”

An awkward moment. “Tell her there’s a queue from here to Westminster Palace of women young and old all insisting the same thing, and she’ll have to get in line.” Sherlock responded, and again Dzubenko laughed.

“Who knew that great detective Sherlock Holmes had such a sense of humor!”

“Yeah, who.” John said dryly.

John was slightly taken aback by the exchange. He had never known Sherlock to attempt humor in conversation. Then again, maybe Sherlock was not attempting anything and Dzubenko simply had an easily tickled sense of humor. Even so, John and Sherlock stared at him in a bit of awe.

“It is all right. You may ask me if I play basketball. Yes, I did at university. Now I coach the kids, boys and girls teams in my spare time.”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Sherlock, Inspector Dzubenko was just explaining to us about some of the challenges the Ukraine faces in law enforcement.”

They all sat down around the conference table. “I love my country, but my country is very vulnerable right now to those who would come in and try to harm her and her people. You know about the riots in Kiev in February 2014 that left nearly one hundred citizens dead. Our president was exiled. Russia is trying to strong-arm us into its camp while the citizens mostly want the ties with the European Union. We declared our independence in 1990, but the Russian bear is trying to destroy it.”

“Politics. Not really my area. Moving on.” Sherlock said. He was sitting directly across from Dzubenko, his hands steepled beneath his chin.

“That is the Sherlock Holmes I was expecting. Cold and to the point. I prefer it.” Dzubenko leaned forward a bit. “The two girls that you rescued were likely destined for Saudi Arabia or Iran as child brides. Trafficking child brides from the Ukraine to the Middle East is one of the many pawns in the game of oil. Light haired Romani gypsy children are especially favored, but with your two not having clean bills of health they were likely rerouted for the child pornography trade. Yes, even Britain has the problem.”

“So why bring them to the U.K.?” John asked.

“Wrong question, Dr. Watson.” He said firmly. “The question should be, why has your country created an environment where a trafficker thinks this is an easy place to bring them?”

“If only Mycroft were here to answer that one.” John said, and Sherlock shot him a glare.

“International politics still not my area.” Sherlock said a little more firmly.

“In the Ukraine everything is motivated by politics. Are you a voting man, Mr. Holmes, or is it too trivial for you to be bothered with?”

“Of course I vote.”Sherlock said.

“Then you understand the importance of politics. Politics run the world.”

John was clearly at a momentary loss. “I’m sorry. I thought this was supposed to be a give and take of crime solving between our countries.”

Dzubenko sat back and took a deep breath. “I love my country. It is a beautiful country with beautiful people and cultures. But I could not truly help my country by being on a local police force. That is why I joined Interpol. It gives me broad access to all the criminal threads. Although we never met before today, Mr. Holmes, I was instrumental in helping you take down the Moriarty cells in the Ukraine and Russia.”

“Moriarty. That wasn’t a name I was expecting to hear today.” Sherlock said tersely.

“I still monitor his old cells, but without their leader they are a bit unfocused, as I’m certain you are aware.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped together on the heavy wooden desk. “I will bring you into the Ukraine under your offer to share your deductive process with the police force. Training them, looking at cold cases, teaching them to think like Sherlock Holmes.”

“Technically not possible but that’s the idea.” Sherlock agreed. “And in exchange...?”

“We will exhume the body of the girls’ mother, and you and Dr. Watson can examine the remains to your hearts' content plus all the evidence from the crime. And if we’re very lucky, we can catch a murderer or two or three and maybe even shut down one thread of child trafficking.”

“Tall order.” John said.

“You both have a tall reputation.” Dzubenko smiled, and he reached into his jacket and pulled out two airline tickets and laid them on the table. “I’ll meet you both at the airport in Kiev in a week. Let me know what equipment you’ll need for your presentation, Mr. Holmes.” He stood up and offered his hand to Lestrade, then Sherlock and John, and he added, “I don’t know if we’ll be able to find the one girl’s baby. If it was adopted, adoption records are sealed. But it’s a  Romani gypsy baby, so it might still be at the orphanage. Those babies are harder to find homes for within the country. They are more often adopted internationally, especially if the baby has health issues.”

“The way you say ‘gypsy’ is like a racial slur.” John said.

Dzubenko raised his brow in surprise. “Is it? It’s simply what they are. There are some who consider them little more than vermin, but I do not hold that view. I am a Romani gypsy, and all six of my children are adopted Romani gypsies. They are my people, and I will not tolerate injustice towards them. We have been persecuted to near extinction as a culture.  We are a sub-class of human being by many people's standards. I understand all too well about racial slurs. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in another division here.”

They watched him leave, and as soon as he shut the door, Sherlock was suddenly hit with the realization that there was far more going on in the case than he was prepared for and that he was entirely out of his element. It was not a pleasant revelation.


	5. Chapter 5

One week. He had one week to get a few things in order before leaving for the Ukraine. He did not anticipate being in the Ukraine for more than a week, and certainly Mary would have very strong words with him if he tried to take John away for any longer period. Although Sherlock had no particular issues with John being married to Mary, he had issues with accountability issues required in marriage, that suddenly one was locked down into the actions and needs of the other as if individuality ceased to exist.

At times Sherlock wondered if perhaps he should go back to MI6 where the needs of his country would always outweigh the needs of a spouse. He did not like anyone telling him what to do with his schedule. Were Molly to ever be demanding and difficult about how he spent his time away from her, he would have to take it into serious consideration whether they should continue their relationship or they should part company. For the moment he was content that she did not ask too many questions and that their lives continued to be lived independently for the most part. He took care of the brain, and he allowed himself the luxury of having her take care of the baser needs of his transport.

There was always also the pressing issue of Mycroft’s case. In truth he did not really want to be one the case, but he had made a commitment, and it would be bad form to back out of it. Scotland Yard had already completed its investigation two days before Mycroft had even brought the case to Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock and John paid a visit to the East End suburban house of MP Francis Paulson. The house sat behind a large iron gate and had an eight-foot fence that was obscured by thick hedging. As soon as they walked up to the gate, he was greeted by two snapping, snarling white German Shepherds. The “Beware of Dog” sign was there for a good reason. Sherlock pressed the buzzer with a gloved hand, and when the voice came on the intercom, he said simply, “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to see Mr. Paulson.”

Almost immediately someone called from well behind the gate, “Sasha! Magic! Come!” The dogs stopped their barking and moved away, and after a few moments the gate opened and they were greeted by Francis Paulson. He shook their hands vigorously. “Sasha’s a bit of a pushover, really, but Magic has bite. Locked them in the house once when the gardener was mowing the lawn, and Magic actually broke the large front picture window to get at him. Came home to find the mower running all by itself and no gardener in site.”

“Quite the hound.” Sherlock mused as he walked through the gate which was quickly shut behind him.

Paulson caught the reference. “Hound of the Baskerville. Read about that case on Dr. Watson’s blog. Never quite know what the government is up to, do you?”

“Or other countries.” Sherlock said crisply.

“Scotland Yard has already been quite thorough, of course, but they were removed from the case by someone high up.” Paulson said.

Mycroft Holmes he meant, but not everyone knew Mycroft even if they worked for the government. Some names were nearly invisible, and Mycroft’s was one of them. “Prime Minister’s office, likely.” Sherlock said dismissively. “And just how does an East End MP manage to make friends with the Turkish Ambassador?”

Paulson opened the front door to his home and allowed Sherlock and John in. “He wasn’t always an ambassador. He was once just a lowly Uni student like me studying political science and law. We were at Manchester together and have been friends ever since. Naturally I was quite horrified when the break-in occurred.”

“Perhaps you could show us around?” John asked, and Paulson immediately obliged.

Paulson took them upstairs to his son’s bedroom. “The thief came in through his window.”

“And where was your son when this occurred?” John asked.

“He’s studying at Manchester University. Has a flat and a girlfriend there. Lovely girl. Both studying international law.”

Sherlock examined the window. It could only be locked from the inside, and as it had not been broken, that would mean it had been left unlocked. He pulled out his little magnifying lens and took a closer look at the wood framing. There was a little scuffing to the paint, but nothing extraordinary. He was not convinced it had been an entry point.

They were shown into the living room where Paulson and the Ambassador had had tea, and John was immediately drawn to the impressive framed displays of military service medals. The Falklands Crisis in 1982, the Persian Gulf War. Medals for distinguished service. John was completely distracted by them, and Sherlock cleared his throat sharply to bring John back into focus.

They spent nearly an hour at Paulson’s residence. His wife was not a suspect as she had left only a few days before the incident for a month-long cruise with her sister through the Mediterranean and was still on that cruise. The housekeeper had gone for the day, and Paulson and the Ambassador had gone for dinner, only to return to the residence and find the documents missing.

“Any ideas?” John asked as the front gate shut them out and their taxi pulled up.

“One major idea, a few minor ones.” Sherlock said quietly.

“Wonder if we’re thinking the same thing.”

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“That this could cause a huge international scandal if it gets out.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “He’s lying.”

“Lying about what?” John asked.

“Everything.” Sherlock said simply as they got into the taxi. He leaned forward towards their cabbie. “60 Holland Park Avenue, please.”

They generally did not discuss their cases in a taxi, especially since Sherlock had become somewhat of a celebrity detective. They never knew who was listening and what information might be unwittingly leaked to the press, and this was no exception.

60 Holland Park Avenue was the address of the Ukrainian Embassy in London, and they had brought their passports with them in order to get their travel VISAs, and afterwards they went in search of Bill Wiggins. Bill’s favorite haunt was on the south side of the Thames just west of Westminster Bridge. Bill was in his usual spot and clearly waiting for Sherlock, but he did not get up from the bench. His eyes looked sunken, perhaps more so than usual. “Shezza.”

“Feeling peckish, Billy?” Sherlock asked crisply as he palmed him a £100 note. Bill quickly tucked it into his pocket.

“Not exactly on the payroll when you’re between big cases.” Bill said simply.

“Well, this may not be a big one, and I hope it’s resolved quickly.” Sherlock said simply. “Had a little break-in at 221B Baker Street. Not the normal type. Someone was hell-bent on destroying my prized possessions rather than stealing them. That spells revenge.”

Bill sat up straighter. “You’re not accusing me, I hope?”

“No, no.” Sherlock insisted. “But our burglar managed to get away with something that has put him or her potentially in a great deal of danger. Thought you might want to keep your ears open for anything slightly off in the network.“

“You think it was someone in the network?”

“Oh I’m quite certain. You know how I feel about dissension in the ranks. Find the mutineer.” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back which made him seem taller and more authoritative.

Bill coughed a little, and John asked, “Did you get your flu shot?”

“I like to get statistics first, and it’s only 60% effective. 60% on a test ain’t exactly a passing grade, is it doc?”

“You should get that looked at.”John said.

“You’re a doctor. You look at it.” Bill challenged.

Now John straightened a bit. “You drugged my pregnant wife.”

“In all fairness, John, that was my idea, and I thought we’d moved past that.” Sherlock said tersely.

John pursed his lips. “Very well. Be at my offices tomorrow at 0830, and don’t be late or I won’t be able to work you in.”

Two days later, early Saturday morning, Sherlock boarded a train to Devon, and from there he took a cab to his parents’ home. He had not told them exactly when he would be arriving nor how long he would be staying, but he did not intend to stay long. His mother would likely cajole him into staying for lunch and tea, and if she had her way she would also have him stay the night, but he had a train schedule to keep that would put him back in London before midnight, and he was determined to make that train.

The ride gave him a little time to catch up on his reading, specifically a back issue pathology journal from Molly’s apartment. He often read the journal cover to cover in hopes of gleaning some new forensic tidbit that might prove useful in a case some day, but most of the information was mundane to what he was hoping for. He was relieved, then when he received a text from Lestrade.

RECOGNIZE THIS MAN? GL

The text was followed by a close-up of a man’s face. Not a police mug shot but something more candid.

NO. IS THERE MORE TO THE PICTURE? SH

ARE YOU IN PUBLIC OR PRIVATE? GL

I’M ON A BLOODY TRAIN. SH

His phone rang at that moment. It was Lestrade.

“Sherlock, our guys here at the Yard have found pornographic pictures of the girls on the internet. There are a few different men with them. You had a bad reaction when you interviewed the girls at hospital, so I’m trying to be sensitive.”

“Do any of these men match the descriptions the girls gave?” he asked.

“Yes.” Lestrade said.

“Can those men be found in similar pictures with others?”

“Yes,” Lestrade replied. “And also, it seems as if most of the pictures were taken on that boat, which is probably why it was scuttled.”

Sherlock hesitated. He wanted to be cold and unbothered by such images. He wanted to be able to look at them with an unfeeling, clinical eye, but the thought of seeing pornographic images of Ionna and Anichka was not something he could stomach, especially as he was about to see both girls in person. He did not want those images in his head.

“Can the sites be taken down that host the images?”

“Once anything is on the internet, it is nearly impossible to reign it back in, but we’ve got our people working on it.”

“It’s called hacking, Lestrade, and it doesn’t take a genius to do it. I want those sites brought down and I want the account holders and the ISPs held responsible.” Sherlock snapped. He did not mean to snap at Lestrade, but the case had him on edge. “I do not need to see the full pictures. In this very rare instance I will take your word for it, but do send me head shots of all the men. I want them burned in my memory.”

“Sherlock, do not go out on your own to perform vigilante justice. Leave these men to the courts.” Lestrade warned. “Promise me you will not take matters into your own hands.”

“Until you identify them, it would be impossible for me to do so.” Sherlock said.

“Promise me.”

“You have my word.” Sherlock groused.

Sherlock wondered what he actually would do if he met up with one of them. He had ideas. He had grisly ideas, and he knew how to make it look like an unsolvable crime scene. He suddenly gasped sharply, pulling his mind out of the deep darkness where it had wandered. He knew he must not spend mental time in that darkness. It was a darkness that had grown stronger in his soul since killing Magnussen. He felt almost certain he would kill again someday, but what bothered him the most was that he felt no remorse for his future act. He had not denied that he was on the side of the angels, but he had also denied that he was one of them.

The train arrived mid-morning, and Sherlock hailed a cab which he first asked to take him to a local bookstore. An idea was beginning to form in his mind, and the book his chose might be the gateway to making the idea a reality. He made his purchase, then stopped midway to his parents’ home to pick up some sweeties for all and a bouquet for his mother. The weather was a bit miserable and turning quite cold, but he was certain his mother would have the house cozy warm. He could already smell the burning wood from the fireplace as the taxi pulled into the driveway, and he could see the smoke wafting into the air above the house.

His mother greeted him at the door with open arms and a kiss to his cheek. She was still in her nightie and dressing gown. “Sherlock! We weren’t expecting you quite so early.”

“You’re not dressed?” he said as he handed her the flowers and chocolates.

“Really monstrous storms last night, and then we lost power for a bit. The girls have just got up and are having some breakfast. Kettle’s just boiled.”

He had no sooner stepped into the house when he was rushed by Anichka and Ionna, both still in their cotton flannel nightgowns. They threw their arms around him and pressed themselves to him, hugging him tightly.

“Ionna, Anichka, come have your breakfast.” His father called from the other room.

The girls pulled him to the breakfast room, one at each side. He gave his father a brief embrace, set his package from the bookstore on the counter, then peeled off his coat which his mother immediately hung for him on the coat rack. The girls set him a place at the table, but he insisted that coffee alone was fine. His father nevertheless laid a freshly made blueberry pancake on his plate. “Your favorite.” He insisted.

But Sherlock had no appetite after having spoken earlier with Lestrade. He could hardly make eye contact with the girls, and Ionna was desperate to make eye contact without giving herself away. He knew what she wanted, and he finally leaned over to her and whispered, _I don’t know anything yet. I’m sorry._ She nodded bravely but her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh Sherlock! You’ve not been in the house five minutes and you’ve already got one of them crying!” his mother scolded. “What is wrong with you?”

His father also shot him a glare, and Sherlock cleared his throat and patted Ionna’s hand awkwardly. _No more crying. My mother thinks I have been rude to you._

Ionna quickly dried her eyes and said in very slow English, “Babusya, Sherlock is my hero. He is good man.”

Anichka chattered at him mindlessly, mostly in Ukrainian although occasional English phrases would slip in. She told him all about feeding the birds and how to refill the feeders, where they bought the seed and how the little squirrels sometimes got into it. She then went on to tell him about the sheep in the paddock across the field and the Australian shepherd, Jack, and that she had asked Babusya and Didus if they could have a dog, but she didn’t think they understood her, so could Sherlock please ask them? _No, I suspect they understood you perfectly. You know your stay here is only temporary. There will be no dog_. He said firmly, and now Anichka’s eyes filled with tears.

“Now what have you done?” his mother demanded. “Perhaps you should have your coffee and breakfast in the other room, Sherlock.”

“Fine.” He got up from the table but left his plate behind. He did not want it anyhow. He was not entirely certain why he had made the visit, as once Lestrade had delivered the information he should have never got off the train. Even now his stomach threatened to rebel against him. These two young girls had been through things he did not want to think about, and seeing them in person just brought it so much in focus although they were living perfectly normal lives with his parents.

He had initially wanted to visit his parents to monitor what was going on with Anichka. Her little soul and emotions were damaged far beyond his expertise, but he was deeply concerned that her anger was beginning to manifest itself in very unhealthy ways.

It was starting to rain again, and it just made his soul feel all that more dreary. There was heaviness in his heart, and he could not quite shake it. He did not regret for a moment rescuing the girls, but they had complicated his life in ways he had not imagined. He had begun to care about them – not just their current dilemma but their futures as well. He did not know how they would fare when they were permanently placed in their future home, but he sensed a need to stay connected somehow, to always watch over them even from a distance.

Anichka took his hand and startled him out of his thoughts. _Sherlock, come see our room. It’s beautiful!_ She called for her sister. _Ionna, I am showing him our room. Come on!_

Their room. That did not exactly make sense to Sherlock until Anichka led him by the hand up to his old bedroom where he immediately did a double-take. The room was now pink with floral appliques, no hint of the room he had grown up in. Even his bed had been replaced by a queen-sized bed that the girls shared.

“What the hell happened to my room?” he asked in some horror.

“It’s not your room anymore, son.” His father said simply.

“We boxed up all your things and put them in the attic.” His mother said crisply. “Feel free to take them back to London any time. I think we’ve stored them long enough.”

“I assumed you had kept it as it was as a shrine of sorts. I’ll be sure to rent a car next time.” He said crisply.

In one corner was a very large pink doll house that obviously had required complete assembly out of the box.

“What is that monstrosity?” he asked.

“Barbie’s Dream House.” His mother said.

“Barbie’s Hell House.” His father corrected. “Took me two days to put it together, but Anichka loves it, so it was worth it.”

 _It has an elevator!_ Anichka exclaimed. _Look!_ She put one of the Barbie dolls into the elevator and cranked it to an upper floor.

Girl toys. Really not his area, but he restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Ionna pressed against his side. _Will you read more of that story to us again?_

 _I bought a new book to read to you both_. he said. The girls exchanged excited glances.

He asked his parents for some private time with the girls, and although they were reluctant to leave the house in such inclement weather, they nevertheless put together a list of errands they needed to run and promised the girls they would be back in a few hours. He took the girls into the living room with the book bag and had them sit next to him on the sofa. He pulled a book from the bag. _I am Malala: The Girl Who Stood up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban._

They did not understand the words on the cover, but they asked if the girl was a gypsy. He said no, that she was from Pakistan. He began to read them the book, and he was determined to read them the entire book during his stay. He felt that it was important for them to know that no matter what had happened to Malala, that she had survived and gone on to be a voice in the world that was heard. He hoped they could understand that they too could rise above their circumstances and that those circumstances did not define them as human beings. At least, that is what he hoped they understood. The girls both cried for Malala, and they interrupted his translated readings with questions.

He was able to read through the first five chapters before his voice needed a brief rest. Ionna fixed him a fresh cup of tea and while Anichka brought him a plate of biscuits. He opened the rest of the book bag and handed each of them a book and a pen that had a flower coming out of the end. The books were beautifully and ornately bound, but the books were completely blank.

 _Is it a diary?_ Ionna asked.

 _It is whatever you want it to be, but I am hoping that you will write down your stories about what has happened to you._ he said carefully.

 _We already told you._ Ionna said.

But that wasn’t what he meant. He wasn’t asking them for a police report. He was asking them to write their stories down to be shared with the world. Immediately both girls shook their heads in horror. He had anticipated that response.

 _I don’t want anyone to know. I’d rather be dead!_ Anichka said.

 _What if it became a real book like Malala and everyone in school read it? I don’t want people to look at me like I’m a bad person, like I am trash!_ Ionna said adamantly.

Both girls had tears in their eyes. How did he always manage to bring them to tears? He growled at himself in frustration. He wasn’t certain what his next move was, and he certainly didn’t want the move to be in the wrong direction.

 _What happened to both of you was very wrong, and I am very sorry that it happened. It should not happen to any young girl._ He said carefully. _But there are many young girls all over the world who are still suffering what happened to you. They need someone to speak for them, someone who understands what they have been through. All I am suggesting—_

 _No! The bad men will find us again!_ Anichka screamed so shrilly that it made him wince, and it was at that moment that his parents walked into the house from their shopping trip.

“Sherlock! What on earth!” his mother cried in alarm, and Anichka flung herself tearfully at his mother and wrapped her arms tightly around her.

“Perhaps your coming here wasn’t such a good idea, son.” His father said. “You only seem to upset them.”

Even Ionna was completely overcome with tears, and Sherlock quickly if awkwardly, put his arm around her and pulled her close. She shrugged out of his embrace and walked over to the window. _I don’t want to think about that life anymore, Sherlock._ She said resolutely. _Neither does Anichka. We want to live new lives. We want to live happy lives._

He shuffled his feet awkwardly for a moment. _I am sorry, Ionna. I shouldn’t have suggested it. It was a bad idea. Forgive me._ He said. _Anichka, forgive me, sweetheart._

The word “sweetheart” in Ukrainian had tripped off his tongue as if it were a natural word to him when it was anything but. He wondered why his mind hadn’t censored the word before it escaped his lips.

Anichka wiped her eyes and turned to him and took his hand when he held it out to her. He pulled her into a warm embrace and held out his other hand to Ionna, and he pulled her into his arms also. “It’s all right. I can handle this.” He said quietly to his parents as he shooed them away with a small hand gesture. His parents seemed unsure but left the room anyhow and he had the girls sit down on the sofa with him again. _Write what you want to in your books. Happy things. Your dreams for the future. Whatever you want to write. A diary is like a best friend you can tell all your secrets to._ He said. _All the famous writers keep journals. Sometimes they draw in them too._

The girls calmed down quickly, and he asked them if they wanted him to continue reading. They were both thoroughly invested in Malala’s story at that point and did want him to get to the end, and so he continued to read to them all afternoon and into the evening until the book was completed and his voice had grown a bit hoarse despite a constant resupply of tea. The girls even ate their dinner at the sofa as he continued to read, and his parents mostly stayed out of his way. When he closed the book, he gently handed it to Ionna.

 _She had great courage._ Ionna said softly. _Maybe one day I will be like her._

He winked at her and gave her a little smile. _You already are._ His heart was practically melting for them, and it was a distinctly uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling, almost as if he was suffocating. He told them he needed to go for a walk and would be back in a short while, and he borrowed one of his father’s umbrellas and walked out of the house, his coat collar turned up against the steady rain. He desperately wanted a cigarette even though he had not smoked for several months and was trying to kick the habit permanently. The problem, he knew, was that he had allowed himself to care. He had become far too involved.

He walked a half mile down the road to the local pub which had only a few customers at that hour, and they were all engrossed in a football game coming out of Chile. No one noticed as he bought a package of cigarettes and then went outside again and without hesitation lit one and took a long drag. He coughed a bit, having inhaled too quickly, but he could already feel the nicotine rushing his system. He was determined to rid himself of the depth of emotion he was experiencing. Two young gypsy girls from the Ukraine could not be allowed to make his heart go soft. Softness was equivalent to weakness in his profession even though he knew he had already passed the point of being able to shut his emotions down entirely.

He had smoked the entire pack in a short amount of time before he’d realized it, and the effects of having smoked too many too fast were upon him. They were the first cigarettes he'd had in months, and he'd been working terribly hard to kick the habit and detox his system.  Now he became terribly nauseous and dizzy. He began to salivate profusely while breaking into a sweat. Mind over matter. He had to make it back to his parents’ home. At least he could say that his current condition trumped his feelings towards the girls. Caring feelings had been forced out of his mind as his transport struggled with a churning stomach and heart palpitations.

His father saw him stumbling and groaning as he made his way up the driveway, finally sitting down on the front steps despite the fact that he was in the rain. If skin could truly turn green, his face had a slightly greenish pallor to it.

“Son?” His father bent down. “You all right?”

Even in the rain Sherlock stank of smoked tobacco, and he turned and vomited into the rose bushes in answer to his father. His father waited patiently, and when Sherlock sat upright again, his father held out his hand. Sherlock hesitated, then retrieved the pack of cigarettes from inside his coat. His father examined the pack. Empty. “Unfiltered. You've never smoked unfiltered. This brand is awful.  What were you thinking?”

Sherlock turned his head away from the scolding. “I’ll be all right.” He managed.

“You want to come in and talk about it?”

“No. I need to get the train back to London. I have my ticket.”

“You’re in no condition to go to London.”

“I’m in no condition to stay here.” Sherlock groaned. He tried to stand up but immediately sat down again. “Mycroft was right.”

“About what?”

He struggled to say his words. He did not like talking about his feelings. It was completely unnatural to him, but he was not himself at that moment. He was ailing. His head was spinning and his stomach was threatening to disown him. “That I shouldn’t have brought the girls here. That I shouldn’t have got myself so involved.”

“Fell in love with them a bit, did you?” His father understood instantly. “Your mother and I have thought about applying for adoption but we’re not eligible to adopt due to our ages. Temporarily fostering them seems to be the best we can do. You could always adopt them.”

“Nurturing. Not my area.”

“Not as long you keep denying you have a heart.”

“Dad, don’t start.” Sherlock said. He turned aside and vomited again. He was glad the exertion caused his eyes to water profusely, because it allowed him a few discrete simultaneous tears.

“You want to act like a petulant teenager who’s never smoked before and got himself sick on low quality tobacco when you’re at my house, you’re going to listen to me.” His dad said firmly. “You think that pushing down your emotions makes your brain work better. All that nonsense about all for the brain and not the transport – that’s what you call the rest of your body, isn’t it? How’s that working out for you right now? Not so good. Truth is, if you spent less energy pretending not to care when you do, you could channel that energy into your brain.” He put his arm around his shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. “Practice telling people what’s in your heart instead of doing something self-destructive. Promise me that.”

“If I promise, can we keep this little incident from mummy?” he asked.

“She’ll know right away what’s up. Best just to face up to a few minutes of scolding and medicine. I think we have some activated charcoal somewhere, and I’m sure she’ll be serving you some.” He stood up and helped Sherlock to his feet. “Do I need to call poison control, son?”

“No,” Sherlock insisted.

“Let’s go back inside then and get you settled for the night. Don’t worry. The girls have already been put to bed.”

Sherlock stopped him for a moment, though. “Dad, there’s something I need to tell you. About Anichka. She’s a very angry little girl.”

“We know.” His Dad smiled, and then he realized. “Is that why you came out here?”

“She’s a time bomb.” Sherlock said.

“Oh yes, we can see it, son. We know she swears at us and we’ve already had to diffuse a few temper flares, but thank goodness we had all that practice with you.” he said simply. “And Sherlock, the next time you don’t want to have a Skype conversation, just say so instead of turning off your camera and microphone. Really, we’re not imbeciles about your little stunt.”

His mother did not have scolding words for him, but she did give him a sharp glance of disapproval before mixing him a slurry of activated charcoal. She said absolutely nothing about his smoking but instead hoped perhaps the incident would put him off cigarettes for good. For that matter, she almost wished he’d smoked two packs and made himself deathly ill. Whatever it took to make him quit permanently. Even so, she put him in his father’s lounge chair, covered him in warm blankets and fussed over him until he fell asleep in exhaustion.

He left the following morning just after breakfast, and he took with him one of the boxes of his old things that his mother had put in the attic. He had no idea what was in the box. He simply took the first box he came to. He was still feeling a little weak from the previous night but he had only a few days before he left for the Ukraine, and he still had a few things to do. The girls, of course, had implored him to stay longer, but he told them he had to get back to work. He gave his mother a kiss on the cheek and embraced his father briefly, and he gently touched the girls’ cheeks and told them to have courage and to write happy things. And he was gone.

In truth he had no desire to smoke another cigarette. Just the thought of one turned his stomach immediately. His first order of business after arriving back at 221B Baker Street was to shower and shave and then get his coat to the dry cleaners and have it ready before he left for the Ukraine.

He still had to develop a general outline for a talk to Dzubenko’s team, sort through the thousands of case file images he had on his computer and make certain he had enough material for at least an hour, and then he would open it to questions and answers afterwards. Whereas being in a crowd of strangers was not his comfort zone, being in front of a crowd and expounding on his knowledge and techniques did not bother him in the slightest. Stupid questions afterwards did bother him when he felt he’d been very clear with his information. John would certainly temper his desire to say something patently rude and impatient.

He arrived at Molly’s flat late Tuesday morning knowing that she was just starting her day at work. Her flat was quieter than 221B, and he was away from the interruptions caused by his computer or Mrs. Hudson or even the street traffic. He took his laptop with him and was completely engrossed in his work for several hours. He texted her.

ANYTHING BUT THAI. SH

Her cupboards were astonishingly bare for a snack, but he found some bread and made himself toast and tea while he waited for her to get off work. His computer work was boring him, and he’d seen all her medical DVDs. He stretched out on her sofa which was slightly too short for him, and he slept.

“Sherlock.” Molly’s voice penetrated his dreams like vapor whispering in the air. “Sherlock.”

He gasped awake and sat up quickly, and Molly gently touched his cheek. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” She was freshly showered and in a white silk dressing gown with the sash tied securely around her waist. “Hungry? I picked up some Greek food.”

“Not particularly.” He said. “But you go ahead.”

“Maybe later. Tell me what you want tonight, Sherlock Holmes.” She said as she straddled his lap. She untied the sash from her robe and let the sides fall open.

He was not entirely certain how to answer her. Was she asking him to do something different than their normal routine? Was she saying his performance was inadequate? “What did you have in mind?” he asked simply. He expected that they would make love that night, but he had not anticipated that she would be so single-minded about it.

“No. Tell me what you want to do,” she said simply. “Every time before you go away on a case, I want to make it extra special for you.”

“Special case sexual intercourse.” He said slowly, clipping the syllables in each word.

She began to kiss him below his ear. “Tell me what you like. Tell me what turns you on. Tell me what you would like to do and have done to you.” Her lips could feel the sudden rapid pulse in his carotid artery.

“I believe you already know those things,” he managed.

“I know what you like in what we’ve already done.” She said. “I want to hear what you would like to do that we have never done.” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye, but she was not certain if he was taking the bait.

In his entire life he had never verbally articulated such ideas, and they did not trip off his tongue now. In fact, he was not entirely certain he had such ideas. The awakened sexual needs of his transport were being adequately ministered to by Molly, but as he had spent the vast majority of his life ignoring such needs, he had also spent that same amount of time not engaged in mental sexual fantasies. Such thoughts were unproductive to his brain’s abilities. “Have you picked a topic yet?” he changed the subject.

“What?” she immediately stopped kissing him.

“For the RSM. A topic.”

“Oh yes. Rana Sylvatica.” She began to unbutton his shirt. She knew he understood Latin, but how much of that extended into species and subspecies she was uncertain.

His brow furrowed. “Frogs. You want to get up in front of the Royal Society of Medicine and talk about a common wood frog?”

She sat back on his knees and scowled. “Thank you for being such a killjoy. You could instead offer to help me dissect them and do chemical analysis on all the organs.”

“Boring.” He scoffed. “Nothing new.”

“You do know these frogs can be frozen and thaw out as if nothing ever happened.” She said. “Don’t you think that has cryogenics potential?”

“Cryogenics is not your area, and a few months of study won’t make it your area. You won’t even scratch the proverbial surface of the science. These frogs have been studied ad nauseam and they’re really not a good topic. You can do better.”

“I’ve already ordered them!” she said tersely.

“So send them back.”

She moved off his lap entirely. “You’ve done nothing but badger me about the topic, and then when I pick a topic it’s not good enough.”

He wanted to get up, but her kisses had aroused him just enough to make that difficult. “You want honesty or do you want mollycoddling?” he asked sharply.

That word hit her hard. She hated that word especially since her name was part of it. “I want your support, Sherlock, the way I’ve always given you mine. The least you could do is to offer to help in any way you can instead of just shooting down the idea before I’ve even begun.”

“I’m saving you time and embarrassment. Isn’t that better?”

She growled in frustration partly because she knew he was right and partly because she was not willing to admit she was wrong. “You’re an arse.”

“That I’m a complete arse is well documented, but am I an arse now because I speak the truth or because I speak the truth indelicately and you require a delicate approach?”

“What’s better is..is… damn it, Sherlock, I’ve already ordered the frogs!” She was completely frustrated with him and with herself.

He reached for her hand and patted his lap, and she hesitated for a moment, then straddled his thighs again and sat back on his knees.

“The frogs will come, and you’ll just let them go in some little brook or pond.” He said, “And then you’ll find the right idea for a presentation.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her sweetly. “Now, as to your initial question, what I’ve learned to want since our first night together, Molly Hooper, is to hear your cries of pleasure and to know that somehow I am doing something right to bring you to that.” He gazed intensely into her brown eyes. “So if you’re thinking of role playing or domination or some incredibly bendy new position --”

She put her finger to his lips. “Shut up.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

She had wanted to give him a special night, but it was he who had given her a special night while the heavy rain often drowned her anguished cries of pleasure. Yes, he did love coaxing those sounds from her. Making love was not all that dissimilar to playing the violin: the touch, the pressure, the coaxing of a sweet sound to his ears. He knew how to play her body. He also loved hearing her say “I love you!” in the heat of their passion. Love was a word he rarely used, and to be loved and to have that love verbalized to him in his most intimate and vulnerable moments was something he desperately needed and craved, sometimes even asking her to repeat it again and again. Although he still had trouble processing that there was some small part of him that was lovable, he nevertheless found it cathartic to hear her say it while making love. He reasoned that if he heard it enough times that he might actually start to believe it. Even so, for him to say the same thing in return was rare. What he felt in his heart did not always reflect what he could say with his lips.

He kept her close all night. He was not anticipating any particular danger on the trip. In fact it was rather comforting to have Dzubenko and John with him in the Ukraine should anything go awry. He knew John was an excellent shot, and he suspected Dzubenko was also. Certainly there was nothing in the case that hinted at any danger to Molly, but he would have Lestrade put her under his watch.

He left her in the grey light of early morning as she slept soundly, the curve of her petite outline perfectly visible beneath the white sheet. Her hair was tousled and unkempt, but he liked it that way because he knew his love making to her had made it that way. He wanted to frame that moment in his mind. He took a mental picture for storage in his mind palace, then quietly dressed and left her flat.

He returned to 221B Baker Street and hurried up to his flat, quick to shower, shave and change. His suitcase was already packed.

Sherlock and John left Gatwick International Airport on a Ukrainian International Airlines flight bound for Boryspil International Airport, just eighteen miles east of Kiev. It was raining heavily, and the flight was slightly turbulent getting up to altitude, but Sherlock did not notice. His eyes were closed and his hands were steepled beneath his chin. Occasionally he would take a sharp breath as if he had been denying his lungs oxygen. He was deep in repose listening to Bach partitas and sonatas for solo violin on his IPod. John, however, kept a fierce grip on the arm rests. He was quite relieved when they reached cruising altitude well above the cloud layers.

However, neither man was prepared for what awaited them when they deboarded in Boryspil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Barbie's Hell House" reference lifted from Amanda Abbington and her tale of putting the monstrosity together Christmas 2014.
> 
> If you like this chapter or any of the chapters, please feel free to leave a comment. Your feedback is most appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

It was overcast in Boryspil with occasional breaks in the clouds, but it hadn’t rained there although the temperature was quite crisp. Even so, the landscape was delightfully lush, and the trees were brilliant in their fall colors.

Sherlock and John were met by airport security as soon as they deboarded and were fast-tracked through customs and to a VIP waiting room. Their luggage had been removed from the plane first and personally delivered to them there by even more airport security, and then they began to be escorted from the airport. That’s when they saw the start of the problem and the reason for the security.

Paparazzi. Clicking cameras. Flashbulbs bursting like strobe lights. A sea of reporters. John was certain there must be a famous diplomat or celebrity going through the airport, but the questions were thrown at them. “Don’t say anything, John. Just keep your head down.” Sherlock advised quietly. The questions came in English, Russian, Ukranian, Croatian, Serbian, Albanian. Sherlock winced to filter it all as John just pressed on as if it were gibberish.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” He said.

There were hurried towards a waiting black SUV and could hardly get into it quickly enough. It wasn’t until the car began to drive away, flanked by police vehicles and motorcycles, that Sherlock erupted in near rage.

“What the bloody hell was all that about?” Sherlock snapped.

“Did you make a fuss about our coming here just to stroke your ego?” John asked.

“I said nothing!” Sherlock snapped again.

“I don’t need to speak any of those languages to know that was the press and paparazzi and that our arrival has been well foretold.” John said.

“It was a shining star in the East, John. Accompanied by wise men on camels.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

This was not good, not good at all. Any chance of having a nice, quiet investigation over the murder of the girls’ mother or even inquiries into the whereabouts of Ionna’s baby was now compromised if they were going to deal with this during their entire stay.

They were taken to the InterContinental Kiev Hotel, and they were quickly ushered inside before the paparazzi and press had a chance to catch up completely, and finally, inside the lobby of the hotel, beyond the grasp of the press and cameras, they had a moment to breathe a sigh of relief and check in. Even then Sherlock felt the sudden need for privacy. A press conference at Scotland Yard was one thing, but this rabble was another matter entirely.

They were taken to their suite on the top floor. It was a 2-bedroom suite with a lovely living room between and a beautiful view. It was warm with a touch of old world charm. A basket of fruit and fresh flowers adorned the room. Copies of three newspapers graced the coffee table: _The Times_ and two Ukrainian papers – _Vesti_  and _Vremya_ , and Sherlock grabbed up the latter to find his and John’s picture on the lower front with the words in Ukrainian: Mastermind British detective Sherlock Holmes and writer Dr. John Watson in Kiev for lecture on crime scene forensics. “You’ve graduated from blogger to writer, apparently.” Sherlock said. “And you don’t really keep up with your blog anymore.”

“You don’t keep up with your website either,” John quipped. “Ah look. They’ve got you wearing your favorite hat.”

Sherlock tossed the paper down in disgust without reading further. “This is not what we came here for.”

“We don’t get this kind of attention in London. At least I don’t.” John said. He quickly added, “But I’m not jealous. Not a bit.”

“Nothing to be jealous of. I don’t seek the attention. It finds me.” Sherlock said. “I haven’t the patience for it. I’ll have Dzubenko put a stop to this nonsense as soon as possible.”

“I’m afraid that horse has left the barn, mate.” John said simply.

They both became silent and looked around the hotel suite for a moment, suddenly awkward. “Bit like old times,” Sherlock finally said. “The two of us sharing a living space again.” Sherlock smiled just a little. He missed the old days with John as a flatmate, but sentiment made him forget the shouting and arguments they had almost daily. He missed John’s availability for conversation or a sudden adventure on a case. John was the first person in his life that he’d ever really engaged with on a daily basis. As much as they could annoy each other, there was a comfort level of complete acceptance of each others’ faults, although Sherlock was certain he would be deemed to have more faults than John.

“Except this one comes with daily maid service, room service, and I have my own loo.” John said. “I wouldn’t mind taking Mary to some place like this sometime.”

And there it was: Mary had crept into the conversation, and his sentiment was immediately displaced by the reality of John’s life. Deep down, however, he knew that it was his choice that day on Bart’s rooftop that had been the true device that had put him alone again at 221B. John would never understand the true implications of that moment, and Sherlock would never have a day since his return from Serbia where he didn’t doubt his decision. He knew, of course, that John and Mary would likely have met regardless of his two-year deception, but he realized he’d forfeited two years of John’s companionship. Life had moved on without him, and he wondered if he would ever catch up.

John pulled his IPhone out of his pocket. “I’m just going to Skype Mary and tell her we made it okay.” John walked off to his bedroom and shut the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed deeply, partly in frustration. He pulled out his phone, adjusting the settings to the hotel’s WiFi and then opened his email and typed out a quick note.

ARRIVED SAFELY. GOOD WEATHER. JOHN HASN’T BEEN TOO ANNOYING YET. ;) SH

He hovered over the send button. He simply couldn’t make himself send the email to Molly. They weren’t married. He did not owe her a constant update on his whereabouts. Whereas John was welcome to play that game, Sherlock refused, and he was certain that Molly understood the constraints on the nature of his work. This time, however, it was not about the constraints of the work as there really weren’t any. It was more about the constraints of what was expected of him in a relationship. He suspected he was a generally lousy boyfriend as it was, and he didn’t particularly care for the term “boyfriend” anyhow. He certainly wasn’t used to the term “fiancé” since no one ever used it of him. He didn’t like that either. Why did everything have to come with a label in their relationship?

He could hear John laughing from the other room. Must be something about the baby, he reasoned. Yes, he was certain he heard John lapse into baby talk. Boring. He realized quickly that his agitation was due to the unexpected reception they had received, and that was spilling into his attitude towards John and towards Molly. He took a deep and closed his eyes for a moment to refocus. When he opened his eyes again, he hit the “send” button on his email.

They stayed in their hotel suite for nearly three hours, just settling in and resting. John took a nap while Sherlock scanned through all the newspapers. Maybe there was an interesting crime he could help with, but the criminal classes in the Ukraine were just as uninteresting as in England. There were hardly any crimes worthy of his talents anymore, and that was entirely frustrating. It meant that his days working with John were fewer. Often he didn’t bother to consult John at all.

Sherlock checked his watch. 2130. He changed his suit and checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror, then took a second look at a small discolored patch just below his right collar bone. A love bite from Molly, the little minx. He cocked a half smile but buttoned his shirt one button higher than normal to hide the mark. “John? You ready?” he called out.

They met Dzubenko for a late dinner in the hotel’s French restaurant, Comme Il Faut, and Dzubenko greeted them with a broad grin and hearty handshakes. They had only sat down at their table when Sherlock asked immediately, “What was all that about at the airport?”

“Likely one of our police inspectors got over-eager about your arrival, and it’s been on the news and in the newspapers.” He said.

“I had hoped for a quiet investigation and a certain amount of anonymity.” Sherlock said.

“You? Anonymous?” John laughed a little. “Might as well tell a rooster not to crow.”

Sherlock shot John a brief scowl. He certainly didn’t miss John’s sassy comebacks from their years together at 221B. Well, maybe he did a little.

“I can assure that you that your work here will not be compromised, Mr. Holmes. In fact, the body of Maria Abramovich was exhumed this morning and is waiting for you at the morgue in Ternopil.”

“I hope it hasn’t been tampered with.” Sherlock said simply.

“How far away is Ternopil?” John asked.

“420 kilometers.” Dzubenko said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be taking a helicopter.”

The following morning they were taken by police escort to a military base outside of Kiev where they boarded a large military helicopter with Dzubenko and a dozen Ukranian troops. “There’s a training camp just outside of Ternopil.” He explained. “This was the fastest and most discreet way to make sure you got there without hindrance.

“Haven’t been in one of these in years.” John said as he buckled in.

The soldiers all seemed so young. Some were likely fresh recruits in their late teens and had skin issues and faces that hadn’t quite matured into adulthood. Their hair was freshly shaved, and they seemed quite solemn, perhaps even nervous. Their commanding officer watched them carefully. That’s what Sherlock saw. John tried not to stare, but he had seen this replayed in Afghanistan with young British recruits. He had been on helicopters with badly injured soldiers – limbs blown off by land mines, bodies ripped open from shelling. John saw death, and his breathing quickened. Whereas Mycroft may have been right that he missed the war, he didn’t miss the ugliness of it.

Sherlock’s voice reached through the sudden panic. “John. John. John.”

It was not the first time that Sherlock had witnessed John reliving the nightmare of war. John normally kept it well under control, and therapy and time distance from the war had lessened the frequency of the episodes.

John took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” He could barely hear Sherlock over the roar of the helicopter blades. The vein on his forehead was visible. He was in a high state of agitation, and they would be on the helicopter for at least an hour.

Sherlock took out his IPod and headphones. He made a selection of music and offered it wordlessly to John. The music directly fed into his ears would drown out the sound of the helicopter. Post traumatic stress was not something Sherlock took lightly especially since he knew first hand its crippling effects. John put the earphones on and took a deep breath, closing his eyes again.

Dzubenko watched John, then turned to Sherlock with a raised brow. Sherlock shook his head and said dismissively, “Something he ate.”

John managed to tolerate the hour-long flight but Sherlock kept a watchful eye on him, gently touching his arm on occasion if he saw John start the rapid breathing again. Sherlock’s touch seemed to reassure him, and each time John would raise one hand and say, “I’m all right.” It was of great relief, however, when the helicopter landed and they deboarded. John managed a salute and handshake to each of the young solders as they lined up. Dzubenko mentioned John’s former rank and that he had served in Afghanistan, and they all snapped to attention dutifully and saluted him.

Another black SUV met them just off the tarmac, and they loaded their luggage and drove away towards the center of Ternopil. They went immediately to the Premier Palace Hotel where once again they were booked into a suite with two bedrooms. It was quite simply opulent, far more than John had ever expected or dreamed.

“Well this… this is amazing.” He said. It was indeed furnished much as if they were in a palace.

“What were you expecting?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“I don’t know. The city, everthing. It’s absolutely stunning. “So much old world charm. The architecture, the fall colors. It’s like a fairy tale land.”

“A country that may go to war with Russia soon.” Sherlock said solemnly.

John hesitated then said, “Sherlock, about the helicopter ride… thank you.”

“For what?” Sherlock asked.

“Just…thank you.” John said, and there was no need to elaborate further between the two men.

Sherlock clapped his gloved hands together. “Right. On to police headquarters. Are you up for it?”

“Of course.” John insisted.

Dzubenko took them to the local police headquarters. Their visit was expected by the chief of police, Ekaterina Koslov, but not by the other police and workers. Koslov was a stern but pretty enough woman, but there wasn’t a police report in Ternopil that wasn’t filed away in her brain. She was an encyclopedia of crime and criminals in Ternopil and had a reputation of having an iron fist. Most in the station did not recognize Sherlock and even less so John, but the few that did recognize Sherlock gasped and stood up as they were escorted through the main floor, down the stairs and into the record vaults. The vaults were opened, and they followed Koslov down a long aisle to a desk at the end where the record keeper immediately stood up and saluted the chief.

Koslov slid a formal request for a file across the table, and the record keeper immediately left to fetch the requested file.

“Perhaps you would like to look at a few of our unsolved cases that have garnered much media attention over the last few years.” Koslov said in English with a heavy Russian accent.

“I’m not a performing monkey.” Sherlock quipped dryly.

There was a deadly, awkward pause, but then Dzubenko laughed heartily and heartily slapped Sherlock on the back. “Ah, Sherlock, the media fails to report how amusing you are!” Koslov had seemed unsure about Sherlock’s response, but when Dzubenko laughed so freely, she cracked a half smile.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, unsure of what he had actually said that was humorous, and John cleared his throat and said quietly, “Once again a bit not good.”

Sherlock turned to the Koslov. “I believe this case is one of those unsolved ones although I’ve heard it’s simply a matter of the known suspect being at large.”

“There is no known suspect in this case, Mr. Holmes.” Koslov said simply.

“Oh isn’t there?” Sherlock insisted.

“No.” she said decisively. “Just a junkie, Romani gypsy whore who got a bad client one night. The killer have been anyone. Hard to say where to begin looking. You see the problem.”

“Indeed I do.” Sherlock said.

The clerk returned with a file box, and Koslov signed for the box, then led the small group down a hallway to a room where they closed the door to examine the contents in private. Not entirely private, however. A CCTV camera was mounted in an upper corner. Whether it was turned on or not, Sherlock did not know but he decided to act as if it were. Koslov handed each of the men a pair of latex gloves from a supply in the room, and she opened the box for them.

“Would you like to read the official investigation first?” she asked.

“No, I prefer to come to my own conclusions. However, I’ll need copies of all the photos, paperwork and contents of her wallet sent to my hotel room by this evening. Make sure nothing is omitted.” Sherlock insisted. “May I?”

“Please.” Koslov insisted, and he stepped back as Sherlock began to lift each piece of evidence out, each contained in a plastic evidence bag. A bloody shirt. Bloody underpants, blood-spattered jeans. A bloody knife. A bag with cell phone. A wallet. Various papers.

Sherlock opened the bag with the bloody shirt. He spread it out gently. It was a floral print with long sleeves and drenched in dried blood on the chest making the fabric quite stiff. He removed his kit from inside his coat and pulled out his small magnifying lens and bent down close to examine the fabric and the pattern of the blood. “John take my torch and hold it inside the shirt.”

John pulled the small torch from the kit and turned it on, then held it inside the shirt. The light shone through the knife piercings in the fabric. Images immediately flashed through Sherlock’s mind of the stabbing, the angle of the knife, the sharpness of the knife, the width and deepness of the cut, even that the assailant was right-handed. “Fatal wound was here, wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock said about one of the cuts.

John took a closer look and said, “I’d like to see the back of the shirt before I make a definitive statement.”

Sherlock gently lifted the shirt and turned it over. The back of the shirt did have some blood, but it was mostly blood free, and it had no knife marks. Again, he saw in his mind that the victim was stabbed, she fell on her side, bled out with the blood pooling mostly to one side leaving the back free of stains.

“Yep, definitely that was the fatal wound.” John said. “Victim likely bled to death within a few minutes.”

The underpants were soaked at the waist and all down the front, and the jeans were soaked in the front with a lot of blood on the upper side. Again Sherlock’s mind replayed the scenario – victim is fatally stabbed but does not go down immediately. She tried to defend herself. Knife slashes to the sleeves. A missing button on the right cuff. She fights long enough and the blood soaks the front of her shirt, her underpants and the top of her jeans before she succumbs to blood loss and collapses on her side. Not generally a position someone dies in. Why was she on her side?

He removed the final packet from the box. Crime scene photographs. It was his first look at the girls’ mother. Blond. He immediately reasoned she might be Ionna’s mother, but blond hair alone wasn’t enough to confirm a deduction. Only DNA could do that. Indeed she had died on her side; she was slumped against the kitchen cabinets. As he finished examining each photograph, he handed it to John, and when John was done, he gave it to Dzubenko. Sherlock stopped with one photograph and put his lens closer. Something caught his eye.

Sherlock removed the jeans from bag and carefully laid them on the table. “John, cut the lights.”

John flipped off the light and Sherlock removed the small black light from his kit and held it over the jeans. The blood stains all lit up florescent. The pant legs had some blood but mostly they were splatters. At least that’s what he originally thought. No, there was something more. He put his fingertips over several of the splatters.

“What is it?” Dzubenko asked as he peered into the blue light.

“Hand print. Fingertips only. The right hand of the one I assume is the assailant. You can turn the light on, John.”

The room immediately flooded with light again, and Sherlock turned to Koslov. “I’d like to visit the crime scene.”

“Of course,” Koslov said, “But I still don’t understand why Interpol is involved or why an English detective wishes to inquire into a little murder in the Ukraine.”

“No such thing as a little murder.” Sherlock said. “And it may tie to a case we have in Britain.” He wasn’t going to mention the girls, especially since Koslov had not mentioned them, which was odd.

Sherlock insisted that he and John would take a taxi and follow Dzubenko and Koslov’s police car. “Did you notice she didn’t even mention the girls as if they didn’t exist.” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, I thought that was a bit odd, but I was following your lead and not saying anything about them.” John said. “Do you think she knows more than she’s letting on?”

“Possibly. Definitely don’t volunteer anything more than what is immediately observable.”

“Are we supposed to be solving this murder case while we’re here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That would be nice, but it’s not my priority. Never has been.”

“So why exactly are we going through all this to investigate something that has already been thoroughly investigated?”

“Because something’s not right, and I intend to right it.” He said simply, but it was more than that. He did want to find the killer, and then he wanted to expose the corruption within the police force, because he knew they were hiding something.

The former residence of Maria Abramovich was on the northern outskirts of the hamlet of Plotycha. The residence was in a short section of row houses. The landlady greeted them in traditional Ukrainian dress. _The apartment is cursed because a murder happened here._ She explained in Russian. _No one will rent it._

 _And did you know what type of activity was going on here?_ Sherlock asked.

 _She was a nice lady. Quiet. Didn’t bother anyone, but I had no idea she was a prostitute until after…terrible, terrible._ She said.

 _And she lived here alone?_ Sherlock prompted.

 _She had two daughters. Ionna and Anichka. And there was a little baby girl. I don’t know what happened to them exactly. Someone said they went to an orphanage. I don’t think Maria had any family._ She said as she unlocked the front door of the ground-level flat.

At last there was a mention of girls and it hadn’t come from Sherlock. Sherlock turned to Dzubenko and Koslov. “Do you mind if John and I have a look around first? We won’t be long.”

The flat had been cleaned, and it was completely empty of furniture, just a small, hollow shell of an apartment. There was a main room, a kitchen, bathroom, and a small back bedroom. The landlady started to open the blinds for better light, but Sherlock shook his head. He needed the semi-darkness for the moment. He immediately went to the kitchen to where Maria’s body had been found. He took out his kit and pulled out the black light. Although the floor looked clean, it revealed the old stain under the light as did the wooden cabinets.

The landlady shrieked. _I have cleaned and cleaned it!_

 _We’re not health inspectors_. Sherlock assured her. _I am a detective and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson._

They moved into the back bedroom. It had a small closet. Sherlock carefully scanned the room, which although recently painted, it did not pass the test of the black light. The wood flooring had spots and the walls showed a drip or two. “Blood?” John asked.

“Blood, urine, saliva, semen. Hard to say at this point without testing, and it’s not important now. We know what happened here. What’s important is visual verification.”

Sherlock stepped inside the closet and shut the door. He turned on his small torch and scanned the inside carefully. That’s when he saw it. Scrawled on the inside wall out of view in Anichka’s handwriting, _HELP_. Perhaps the girls had hidden in the closet at times. This bit of information he kept to himself. He opened the closet door and stepped back into the room.

“Find anything?” John asked.

“Nothing much.” Sherlock said.

“You wouldn’t think anything amiss happened here.” John said. “But it does feel a bit haunted somehow.”

“I don’t believe in hauntings, John, and if I did, I would hope the victim would point us to her killer and not try to frighten us.” Sherlock said. “All right. We’re done here.”

Their next stop was the morgue. Although John had seen death on the battlefield and had been to a number of fresh murders with Sherlock, he was never keen on looking at badly decomposed bodies, especially exhumed bodies whose state of decomposition could often be more morbid than a body found in the woods after two weeks.

The entire coffin was wheeled out on a gurney. Sherlock knew that Maria Abramovich had likely been buried at the expense of the state if no relatives had been found. Pauper’s grave. As the coffin lid was removed by morgue workers, Sherlock stepped forward to take a look at the corpse. John winced at the smell and turned his head as did Koslov and Dzubenko, but Sherlock didn’t flinch. A closer look at her hair. Her roots were dark. Maybe she was Anichka’s mother. He gently plucked a few hairs and placed them in a small specimen bag. He would have the DNA tested back in England, and he would find out once and for all which girl had the genetic link to her. He wasn’t certain he would ever tell them, but he felt he needed to know. Whereas he could have procured a DNA sample from the evidence box, he preferred to get his own. He would see the files later with the DNA information. He spent more time than he needed to with the corpse simply because he needed to make Dzubenko and Koslov believe he had not wasted their time or the country's money in the exhumation. He was anxious to spend more time studying the photographs of Maria’s naked body taken in the morgue before she was autopsied. He wanted to know every cut and bruise to put together a proper picture of the type of assailant. He wanted to look for types of drug use.

“What type of case could this possibly be connected to in England, Mr. Holmes?” Koslov pressed again.

“The murder of prostitutes is not endemic only to the Ukraine.” was the only answer Sherlock would give her. He wasn’t terribly good with lying, but neither was he willing to give her the truth, and he hoped that answer would keep her brain spinning on the puzzle. Sherlock turned to her. “The landlady mentioned something about Maria having two daughters. Where might we find them?”

“They were sent to a state-run orphanage in Lutsk. The oldest one already had a baby. That’s the way they are in the gypsy world. Immoral. Thieves. Can’t be trusted. Like mother, like daughter.”

Sherlock saw Dzubenko’s jaw tense, the vein in his forehead becoming visable.

“John I think Lutsk is on our agenda tomorrow.” Sherlock said.

“You won’t find them there. The girls ran off, left the baby behind. They haven’t been seen or heard from since.” Koslov added quickly.

“You still want to go?” John asked. “Sounds like a dead end. No pun intended.”

“Oh I absolutely insist we go.” Sherlock said.

“I’ll take you,” Dzubenko said firmly. “It’s just a few hours drive.”

Sherlock and John returned to their hotel room where a thick packet containing copies of the photos and the files on Maria Abramovich awaited them, but John seemed especially tired. “I’m just going to lay down for a bit.” He said, and Sherlock watched him walk off to his bedroom and shut the door. He was concerned with the earlier display of John’s PTSD, and he wished they’d never taken the ride in the military helicopter. However, it was too late to change all that and Sherlock simply needed to press forward. However, something was bothering him about the entire investigation, especially about that day.

He opened his laptop, tied into the hotel’s WiFi, and did a search on “Ekaterina Koslov, Ternopil.” Google images brought up various images of her on duty, images of her receiving commendations, of her her giving press conferences. Although he did not consider her a suspect, there was something about her tone when describing Maria. Ionna had said her last boyfriend was a policeman and she felt they were all corrupt. So there may have been more than one involved. Did they take advantage of the girls too? Was Koslov aware that this type of activity was going on with her officers? If she was, had she done any housekeeping? Was there any investigation of corruption? His searches failed to find a single article.

He searched on Maria Abramovich and the image search found several images, including one of her, Ionna and Anichka when Anichka was celebrating her 3rd birthday. He scanned the other faces at the birthday party. Men and women. Family? Friends? He couldn’t be certain, but he didn’t believe that she didn’t have family as Koslov had said. Perhaps she was simply estranged from her family and no one knew who or where her family was. A lifestyle of prostitution and drug abuse did not engender much compassion in the Orthodox country. The word “whore,” however, was not a commonly used word between women of women unless there was jealousy. Koslov had practically spat the words. She was angry, but why was she angry? Was it simply a form of bigotry?

Early the following morning Dzubenko rented a car and took Sherlock and John nearly 170 kilometers north to the small town of Lutsk. The state home for orphaned children was a Soviet-era red brick building nestled between the Styr River and the P-14 road on a wide patch of dense ground cover.

“Positively Dickensian.” Sherlock remarked as the car pulled into the driveway.

Inside the building, however, it was quite different. Although the architecture was still quite cold and business-like, it was painted in bright, cheery colors, and an artist had painted lovely murals on the walls of the hallways. It was also well-staffed and clean. The older children were all off at school while only those under four-years old remained, and most were down for a mid-morning nap when Sherlock, John and Dzubenko arrived.

 _The Abramovich girls. Yes, of course I remember them. It wasn’t that long ago. They were sent off to school one day. The bus driver remembers them getting off the bus, but they never showed up for their classes, and they didn’t get on the bus to return here later. They have not been seen or heard from since. Their pictures were all over the news, but they simply vanished. Run off, we feared_. The superintendant, Aneta Solulsky said in Ukrainian. She did not speak English, and everything she said, Sherlock translated immediately for John. _It was quite awful. I do hope nothing bad has happened to them._

 _I understand the oldest girl had a baby_. Sherlock said. _Is that baby still here?_

 _This way._ She said.

They followed her down a long hallway to a room with several cribs that lined the walls. Each crib held an infant or baby under a year old. A nurse was on duty 24/7 in the room, but even so, three were crying and she was comforting a fourth. They were led to the crib of a crying 11-month old baby with short blond curls just like Ionna’s. _Her name is Raisa._ (rahEEsah). _All the babies are a bit sad when the older children are at school, but Raisa misses her mother. She will eventually forget and adjust._

Dzubenko immediately reached into the crib and picked up Raisa and began to comfort her by singing gypsy lullabies, songs that Ionna would surely have known and possibly sung to her.

 _You say that as if her mother isn’t coming back._ Sherlock said.

_Her mother was just a child herself. That’s probably why she abandoned her._

_Her mother didn’t abandon her._ Sherlock said simply. _Her mother and sister were kidnapped._

John looked at Sherlock a bit incredulously. That was the first time Sherlock had offered up any information about the case.

 _Kidnapped? Why do you say this?_ she asked.

_Quite simple really. The killer of the girls’ mother knew they had been sent here, and he kidnapped them to silence them._

_Which makes little Raisa part of an investigation._ Dzubenko said. Raisa had quieted in his arms and she clung to his shirt. _We will have her moved into protective custody immediately._

 _You can’t just walk in here and take one of our children. I already have two couples interested in adopting her!_ she protested.

 _Not anymore_. Sherlock said.

They waited there for two hours until the proper paperwork and authorities came to take Raisa into protective custody, and then Dzubenko, Sherlock, and John left the premises.

“So, what exactly was all that about?” John asked. He had kept relatively silent during the day’s proceedings except for making forays into soothing crying babies. He was particularly good at it besides missing his own baby daughter. Sherlock was up to something, and he knew it, and he didn’t want to risk botching the plan.

“Stirring the pot, John.” Sherlock replied. “There is a conspiracy to suppress information about this case, and I’ve just blown the lid off, something I was not willing to do until we had the baby safely away. Now it’s time to give the media hounds a real story.”

Dzubenko checked his watch. “The helicopter will be here in forty-five minutes to take you back to Kiev.”

“Was thinking of maybe taking the train.” John said. “Haven’t really had a chance to see much of the country yet, and I’d like to.”

“It’s a long ride back, and you have the presentation tomorrow. You will want to be rested. Helicopter is much more efficient.” Dzubenko insisted.

“John’s right,” Sherlock jumped in. “I can work on the presentation on the train and see a bit of the countryside. No need spending all that time cloistered in a hotel suite doing the same thing.”

It was a long train ride – nearly eight hours. John made no apologies, and Sherlock never addressed the issue but instead did just as he had said he would do which was to work on his presentation.

“Sherlock,” John finally said, “What we’re doing here isn’t going to put the girls in any danger, is it?”

“Mycroft’s working with immigration to get them permanently settled into England. They’ll get new identities. Everything will be fine.”

“And the baby?”

“I don’t really know how all that works, John. Immigration is not my department.” He said it slightly tersely, then softened his tone. “Honestly, the baby complicates matters. I wish it weren’t a part of the investigation.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if Mycroft can work it out that my parents can continue to foster the girls until they are legal adults, I…I…” he hesitated for a moment, “I would be willing to sign on as a legal guardian in the unfortunate event of their premature deaths. But I don’t think my parents are up to caring full time for a baby at this stage of their lives so that Ionna can go to school, and if something happened to my parents tomorrow, I am certainly not able to care for a baby nor do I want to. So you see, it complicates things. But if there weren’t a baby involved, I would consider the guardianship option.”

“You hoped we'd never find the baby, didn’t you?” John asked incredulously.

“A bit.” Sherlock admitted.

“I didn’t think fatherhood was part of your future plans.” John said.

“It isn’t.” Sherlock said, and he added firmly, “It isn’t.”

“But you hoped guardianship would give you a pseudo parenthood that you would hope to never realize.”

“Something like that.” Sherlock shrugged.

John sat back in his seat and eyed the detective. “Yeah, no. Not buying it for a moment. You’re just yanking my chain like always, seeing what kind of reaction you can get from me. Well, not this time. Nope.” John snapped open his newspaper and blocked Sherlock from his view.

Sherlock hadn’t been lying, however. He had been attempting to open his heart a bit, as his father had advised him, and John had shut him down, and that had hurt a little. It was in his heart to make certain the girls were somehow part of his life, and he had been working out the ramifications of guardianship, but he sighed and said, “You know me too well. And John, that paper’s in Russian.”

“I bloody know it’s in Russian. Sod off.” John groused.

They arrived back at the hotel late at night, once again fighting their way through paparazzi in front of the hotel. It was baffling to both of them. Why so much interest in them? They hurried up to their hotel suite where Sherlock wasted no time in Skyping his parents. His father answered the call. “Sherlock? Everything all right?”

“You answered Skype awfully fast.” Sherlock said.

“I’m browsing Ebay and bidding on stuff I don’t need. Don’t tell your mother.” He said.

“Get Ionna.” Sherlock said.

“She’s just gone to bed, son.”

“Get her up then. It’s important. Please, Dad.”

His father walked away from the computer, and there were several minutes of silence, but Ionna was brought to computer screen. “Sherlock!” Her face lit up immediately.

Sherlock held up his IPhone to the camera so that she could see the short video he took of Dzubenko holding Raisa.

“She’s so big!” Ionna gasped, and then her eyes filled with tears and she began to cry. “I want her!”

Mr. Holmes put a comforting arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave Sherlock a stern glare. “Must you always make her cry?”

“No, no, Didus. I am happy, but I am sad. I miss her.”

“She is safe and well,” Sherlock assured her. He pulled up a still photo from his phone and held it up. It was a close image of Raisa’s face.

Ionna gasped and touched the computer screen as if she could touch the baby, and she leaned forward and kissed the screen. _My baby. Mama loves you._ She then turned to Mr. Holmes and completely gave into her tears. _I want her! I want her!_

“Come on, luv. Back to bed. It’ll be all right.” He said gently as he helped her up from the desk chair. “Sherlock, you’ll send the video and images by morning, I trust.”

“I will. Good night, Dad.” Sherlock said as he ended the call.

John had seen the entire exchange and was stunned. “Oh. You weren’t joking about that guardianship thing, were you?”

Sherlock shut his laptop. “Doesn’t matter, John. They’ll be placed in a permanent home soon, and I’ve got to get some rest. I have a little presentation to give tomorrow in front of a few dozen police officers. I’ll see you in the morning.” Sherlock said as he walked into his bedroom and shut the door. He had to shut the previous two days out of his mind and concentrate on the task ahead.

Once again neither was prepared for what the following day and what truly awaited them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming soon! Thanks for continuing to read this story!
> 
> If you want to be kept updated, bookmark the story to get notifications.


	7. Chapter 7

Ukraine’s time zone was two hours later the Britain’s, and although it was not a terrible adjustment, Sherlock found himself cursing at his IPhone when the alarm went off in the morning. He was feeling the pace from the previous three days catching up with him, and he would have liked to have slept in a bit.

Truth was, he hated public speaking, being in front of crowd, being on display. He just hoped there wouldn’t be too much stupid in the room, but he wasn’t counting on it. He showered and shaved but wished he had time for a proper wet shave from a barber. His facial hair had a tendency to grow quickly, and he would be sporting the start of a shadow by mid-afternoon.

He dressed in a dark blue suit with an aubergine shirt and took a few minutes to add some shine to his shoes. When he walked out into the living room, John was already dressed and having a spot of breakfast.

“These little pastries are delicious. You should try some.” John insisted.

“Dulls the brain. I need to stay sharp and focused.”

“Coffee then?”

“Encourages a nervous impulse to urinate.”

“So you’re nervous then.” John said.

Sherlock glared at him. “No. Why should I be nervous? I’m perfectly prepared and in command of my materials.”

“Fine. Just don’t be an arse when you’re up there,” John said, “especially during the Q and A.”

There was a knock on the suite doors, and Sherlock went to answer it. It was Dzubenko. “You should know that there’s a bit of a media circus downstairs.” He said.

“But why?” Sherlock asked as he slung pulled on his coat. “I’m just giving a little talk.”

“Not exactly.” Dzubenko said.

Sherlock immediately froze. Something unexpected and likely unwelcome was coming. “What do you mean not exactly?”

Dzubenko held up his hands. “It was not my doing, but it all just snowballed, and it became an event. Come and hear the great detective Sherlock Holmes. You are booked into a venue that seats 1500 people, and all the tickets sold out within four hours.”

Now John stood up in shock.

“No no no no no!” Sherlock said in horror. “That is not what I agreed to. There were never supposed to be tickets! It was supposed to be private! Just me and a roomful of policemen. Who are these 1500 people?”

“Probably mostly the general public although there will be a lot of police and detectives there, and then there are the fans.”

“The fans?” Sherlock practically choked. “I don’t have fans! I don’t even like people!”

“He really doesn’t, you know.” John added quickly. “Completely unsociable.”

“My presentation is not for 1500 people, most of whom have probably never seen a dead body! It’s all about forensics and observation. It is not meant for the general public!” Although Sherlock was not one to panic, he felt his heartbeat quicken, and his temper was rising. “You knew the whole time we’ve been here and said nothing!”

Dzubenko straightened. “50 people or 1500 people. It makes no difference. You give the same presentation. They know what they paid for and you know your material. You undoubtedly could keep them enthralled without any preparation. Don’t quit the game now, Mr. Holmes. Go out there and do your best. Show them what you’re made of. That’s all anyone asks.” Dzubenko the sports coach was trying to bolster Sherlock’s courage just the way he did with the youth on his basketball teams. “Oh, and one more thing. You’re invited to Sunday dinner at my house tomorrow. My wife insists, and you never say no to her.”

“Oh that sounds lovely.” John grinned, but Sherlock’s face continued to reflect horror.

Dzubenko led them to the lobby where they were met by a private security detail of six burly men who Sherlock immediately deduced to be carrying concealed weapons. “Is this really necessary?” Sherlock asked with distain, but as they approached the lobby doors, they could see the crowd that had gathered, some holding signs that said #Sherlock Lives! One even held a sign with a large heart with Sherlock and John’s pictures in the middle of the heart. Sherlock pointed to the sign in horror. “No! No! John, do you see that?”

“It’s what the press has speculated for years, mate. You know that. Just ignore it.” John said.

“But you’re married! With a child!” Sherlock said.

John shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to the press or to over-imaginative minds. Even if you went public with a relationship, they’ll just insist it’s a ruse. Ignore it. Of course they’ll be wanting autographs.”

“What for?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the idea. “Well they’re not getting any. Anderson and his little club were bad enough. Is there another way out?”

“Yes, but there’s no time.” Dzubenko said.

They were ushered out of the hotel by the body guards and were immediately met by screaming fans and clicking cameras, cell phones, media trying to ask questions, and Sherlock could not get into the vehicle fast enough.

Police escorts again. Sherlock groused about it, that it was only drawing more attention to him, and he didn’t like that.

“Any other surprises?” Sherlock asked Dzubenko.

“That all depends on your definition of surprise.” Dzubenko said with a grin.

The venue in question was a concert hall and theater with a large stage, orchestra pit and a two-tiered balcony. It was a grand old theater palace, with gilt carvings and old master paintings on the ceiling. Sherlock suspected the building was late 1800’s and was a state treasure. Although it had been renovated and modernized, it still retained the old charm and opulence. The front curtain was drawn and a large projection screen was dropped down in front of it. A single microphone and a table with Sherlock’s laptop rigged to projection equipment were on stage. The opening page of his presentation, “Seeing and Observing: The Detective’s Guide to Crime Scene Forensics.”

The moderator and translator, Irina Ivanoff, was dressed smartly in a cream-colored business pant suit, and she shook Sherlock’s hand politely. “Which language do you prefer to present in, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am perfectly adept at giving the entire presentation in Russian, but for the benefit and assistance of my colleague, Dr. Watson, I will be giving it in English.”

Now John looked horrified. “What? No, this is your thing entirely.”

“Nonsense, John. I’d be lost without my blogger.” He said simply.

John pulled Sherlock aside and said quietly but a little angrily, “I haven’t even seen your presentation! Not once!”

“You know the cases, though. Just follow along and feel free to interject your comments and observations.” Sherlock said quietly.

“I don’t think you would like to hear my comments right now.” John hissed.

“We’ll get our speaker fees, and you can take Mary to a fine hotel when you get back to England.” Sherlock faked a grin but then sighed with resignation. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Sherlock and John turned and went to the stage right wing. They could hear the audience chatting and jostling about for seats.

“No need to be nervous, Mr. Holmes.” Irina said.

“I’m not afraid of crowds,” Sherlock said crisply as he jerked his jacket down to straighten it. “I just don’t particularly like people. There’s a difference.”

“Just a reminder that we will have to vacate the premises by 4:00 so that they can get ready for tonight’s concert.” Irina said. “One of my jobs is to keep you on schedule.”

John leaned into Sherlock and said quietly. “She means don’t be long-winded. And don’t be that other thing I said earlier.”

Irina walked out on stage to applause, and she spoke in Russian to the audience for a moment, then gave a brief introduction of Sherlock and John before holding out her arm towards them. Showtime. Sherlock and John walked out onto the stage to thunderous applause and a standing ovation. Dzubenko, he could see, was sitting in the middle of the front row, leaning forward in his seat to catch every word.

After a slightly halting start not unlike his best man speech, he was able to focus, with John’s help, on the materials. The presentation went surprisingly well and faster than Sherlock realized simply because he had over-prepared material and couldn’t get it all in. And suddenly his time was up.

\- - - - -

The following is the transcript of the Q&A following the presentation. Questions were generally spoken in Russian and were translated into English by Sherlock for John, and then his answer was translated back into Russian by the moderator.

**Q &A**

Moderator: We will now begin the question and answer portion of the program. If you can please make your way down to the microphones. There isn’t time, of course, to get to all of you.

Question 1: Mr. Holmes, do you plan on writing an autobiography someday?

Sherlock: Why? Who would read it?

(lots of cheers and applause)

Sherlock: It has been in my mind lately to do so, although it would likely be more in the vein of my website than an actual tell-all of the bits and pieces of my personal life which I’m quite certain you would all find deadly boring. So I guess that would make it more of a textbook.

Question 2: Mr. Holmes, can you talk more about your relationship with John Watson…

Sherlock: Dr. John Watson.

Question 2 (cont’d): Dr. John Watson. Sorry. Can you talk about how you work together when on a case?

Sherlock: We examine the evidence together. Although I am an expert in forensics, I am not a medical doctor, and John brings a different perspective when we are working on a murder. If we’re not working on a murder case, we will often split the research and footwork to make it go faster. Then we regroup and go over our findings. Most cases are solved very quickly and are quite mundane. Then he blogs about it while I’m looking for another case.

Question 3: Could you tell us how you survived the fall from St. Bartholomews?

Sherlock: If you have to ask, you haven’t really thought about it, so I will give you the simple answer. I sprouted wings and flew.

(some laughter)

Question 3: No, but really, sir, how did you survive?

Sherlock: Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. You are seeing but not observing. Go spend more time on it.

Question 4: Are you certain James Moriarty is dead?

Sherlock: As certain as I am standing here. He put a gun in his mouth, pulled the trigger, and blew a hole through the back of his head. Blood and brain matter were present.

Question 4 (cont’d): It could have been faked.

Sherlock: It wasn’t.

John: I examined the body post mortem as did several others. At that time he had been dead for several hours and an autopsy had already been performed. One doesn’t get much more dead than that.

Question 4 (cont’d): But you examined Mr. Holmes on the pavement and thought he was dead and he wasn’t.

Sherlock: He took my pulse and didn’t find it. Squash ball under the armpit. Cuts off circulation. Lack of pulse is not an indicator of death, but James Moriarty is dead. Moving on.

Question 5: What do you do between cases?

John: I can answer that one. He gets bored. He once spray-painted a smiley face on the nice wallpaper and then proceeded to shoot it.

(some laughter)

Sherlock: Thank you, John. It’s true, I did, but I hit all the marks! What Dr. Watson failed to mention is that I also spend a great deal of time reading and researching, and I can often be found at my microscope. My microscope is absolutely invaluable as a tool. A degree in chemistry helps too.

Question 6: Mr. Holmes, when you approach a crime scene, what is the first thing you look for?

Sherlock: Were you not paying attention in the presentation?

Question 6 (cont’d): I thought I was.

Sherlock: Yes, and if you were a detective, you’d have already missed everything of importance. What did I say, people? Anyone? You there, in the third row, come down to the microphone.

Question 7: You said to ignore the obvious because it cluttered the brain with useless data that any moron could observe.

Sherlock: Excellent. See it, file it away quickly and move on to more important things.

Question 8: Mr. Holmes, if a victim is attacked from the front, isn’t it reasonable to assume the victim knows the killer?

Sherlock: In most cases, yes.

Question 8 (cont’d): But weren’t you shot in the chest almost 18 months ago? That means you were facing the killer. Yet we’ve never heard anything about that case being solved. Can you give us an update?

Sherlock: You are asking me about an incident which nearly killed me and from which I had a very lengthy recovery. I had three seconds of consciousness left after being shot and I chose to use those three seconds to concentrate on survival.

Question 8 (cont’d): So you did know the shooter?

Sherlock: The case is under ongoing investigation, and I am not at liberty to comment further, but if you’d like to see my scar, I can show it to you.

(cat calls and whistles)

Sherlock: No, not really. It’s about nine inches long. Had to pretty much regrow an entirely new liver. Lesson learned: when you’re recovering from a serious illness or injury, listen to your doctor and don’t try to push it. That’s what turned a three-inch scar into a nine-inch scar and six months of recovery during which time I was unable to work at all, and that nearly drove me nutters.

John: I can vouch for the fact that he’s a terrible patient.

Sherlock: Oh I snuck in a few quick cases. Some can be solved over email alone.

Question 9: Is there any truth to the rumor that you are here to investigate a murder?

Sherlock: Actually, I’m here to look at several of your old murder cases that have turned cold. I often look at cold cases with Scotland Yard. I especially like the ones from one hundred years ago. Sometimes there’s something to be solved, and sometimes there isn’t, but thankfully forensics has developed into a fairly exacting science. I suggest all you who are hoping to go into that field or are in that field to look at old cold cases to hone your skills. Something has always been missed. Perhaps you will find it.

Question 10: Mr. Holmes, what has been your favorite case so far?

Sherlock: Hard to pick just one. Wouldn’t want to hurt the other cases’ feelings.

(more laughter)

Sherlock: John, do you have a favorite case we’ve done?

John: I did rather like The Bloody Guardsman. Something quite patriotic stirs in the heart to see the guardsmen marching.

Sherlock: What John is really saying is that it’s his favorite because we solved it on his wedding day. The would-be killer turned out to be his wedding photographer.

John: Although he was a fairly decent photographer. You said so yourself.

Sherlock: Yes, he was.

Question 11: Dr. Watson, did you have any trouble adjusting to Mr. Holmes’ style of investigating when you first became his partner?

Sherlock: Partner, no. That sounds like we were a couple which we aren’t and never have been nor ever will be. John is a professional colleague.

Question 11 (cont’d): Sorry, wasn’t implying anything.

John: No harm, no foul. To be honest, when I first started working with him, it was quite amazing and overwhelming. Not exactly what I ever trained for. I’m still gobsmacked at the bits he can pull out of a crime scene that no one else ever considers. I’ve had to learn to run faster to keep up. My legs are shorter.

(lots of laughter)

John: But we each have our strengths and weaknesses on a case, and if Sherlock ever decided to teach his techniques at university, I am quite certain most students would fail miserably.

Sherlock: That doesn’t quite sound complimentary.

John: What I mean is that no one here can think like Sherlock Holmes because they’re not Sherlock Holmes. The best all of us ordinary folk can do is try to keep up.

Question 12: Dr. Watson, you haven’t blogged much about your cases over the last few years. Do you plan to blog again or maybe you will write a book?

John: I didn’t realize people were actually missing it.

(lots of applause)

John: Well, I guess if you want me to, I can certainly try to keep up with it again.

(lots of applause)

Question 12 (cont’d): And Mr. Holmes, will you be working on your website again?

Sherlock: If I thought anyone was actually reading it…

(lots of applause and cheers)

Sherlock: I will dust it off and have a look again.

(lots of applause and cheers)

Question 13: Mr. Holmes, is there a case you didn’t solve but wish you had?

Sherlock: I don’t consider any case unsolved. I only consider it needs more time. The answer is always out there. Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Watson?

John: Solving crimes is a bit like solving a medical mystery. Sometimes it takes a while to run all the tests and rule things out, but eventually you get around to a treatment for the patient. But crime is a bit more black and white, I think.

Moderator: We’ll take two more questions.

Question 14: Mr. Holmes, do you think it’s possible to outwit you in a crime?

Sherlock: Anything is possible, but not everything is probable. You took public transportation to get here today because you just broke up with your boyfriend and didn’t have use of his car anymore. But you got to keep the cat. And you’re thinking of dropping out of university, but I wouldn’t do that. Find a way to finish your degree. Am I right?

Question 14 (cont’d): Yes, sir.

Sherlock: Studying music?

Question 14 (cont’d): Music education.

Sherlock: Very important. Without music teachers the world would be far less tolerable.

Moderator: One last question.

Question 15 : Dr. Watson, how do you juggle the time between your private practice and working with Mr. Holmes?

John: It’s tricky sometimes, but my schedule is quite flexible, but there are times when I simply can’t get away for one reason or another, and then Sherlock is on his own. But keep in mind that he was on his own before he ever met me, and he’s more than capable of carrying on without me entirely.

Sherlock: Oh I wouldn’t say that.

Moderator: Well, I think we can all thank Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson--

Sherlock: Wait. I have a question for everyone in this room. Take a look at the woman’s face on the screen. Someone here knows her or knows about her. Someone here knows who killed her or is actually the killer. Yes, the killer may be right here in this room. Maria Abramovich from Plotycha. I have a website, and you know how to find me with any information. The game is on.

Moderator: I think we can say this afternoon has been most informative. Let’s give our guests a proper round of applause.

**End of Q &A**

\- - - - -

Despite the pleas of the crowds outside of the venue, Sherlock did not sign a single autograph or indulge in selfie picture taking as he and John were leaving. They were hurried back into their waiting vehicle, and as soon as they began to drive away, Sherlock groaned, “Well, that was miserable. Remind me _never_ to do that again.”

“I thought you did really well.” John said. “But why did you show Maria’s picture to everyone? Stirring the pot again?”

“Better than that. I’ve just hit the hornet’s nest, so we’ll need to duck and cover a bit.”

“Don’t like the sound of that.” John said.

“What could possibly go wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” John said. “And that bit about who shot you in the chest. What the bloody hell was that?”

“The question was asked. It was all over the newspapers all over the world when it happened. What was I supposed to say?” Sherlock asked. “What would you have said?”

John shook his head. He simply didn’t like that case coming up again as it potentially put Mary in jeopardy, and he definitely didn’t want anyone poking around on that case.

Sherlock continued, “I can hardly make a move in public anymore without it being broadcast. It’s making my job more difficult every day. Like it or not, John, your blog made me—us—famous, maybe too famous. I’ve been thinking of retiring. Maybe do some writing or laboratory research or keep bees, who knows.”

“That would last about one day and then you’d be itching for a case.” John said.

“No, I mean it. Maybe not this year, but it’s something that’s been in the back of my mind for a while.” He said.

“Sounds like settling down. Is that it? Your little cottage out in the country—what’s it called again?”

“Sparrow’s Nest.”

“And I suppose Molly’s going to quit her job and move out there with you and you two can have a gang of morbid little children—“

“What? No!” Sherlock said. “Forget I brought it up.”

John eyed him warily. “Yeah, see, you’ve pulled this stuff on me before, and I believed you, and you were joking. So I’m not really buying it at the moment. You’ve cried wolf on me one too many times.”

“I deserve that.” Sherlock admitted.

The remaining car ride was fairly uneventful and quiet as the car wove through the streets back to the hotel, but once again there was a mob waiting for him. “Keep driving!” Sherlock ordered, and their driver moved the vehicle away from the front entrance. The car drove around several blocks before circling back and going to the delivery dock in the back. They got out and made their way through the food storage areas and kitchens, then eventually into the lobby of the hotel where they were able to catch an elevator to their floor.

“I don’t want to live a life like this, John.” Sherlock said once they were back in their hotel room.

“It never bothered you before to have to meet with the press. And I don’t understand why you don’t think today didn’t go well. You did great up there in front of everyone. Quite frankly, you should teach more often.” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened with horror. “Have you not been listening to me at all today?”

“Unfortunately I have. You’ve been a drama queen and it’s quite frankly annoying.”

Sherlock started to respond with a retort but thought better of it. “Sorry,” he said simply, and then he went into his bedroom and shut the door.

John was not certain what had just happened, but he remained rooted to the spot. He did not know what was going on in Sherlock’s head or if he should bother investigating further. He sighed deeply and groaned in frustration, then knocked on Sherlock’s door. “I’m ordering room service, and you haven’t eaten all day. What do you want?”

There was a long pause but finally came the answer, “Fish and chips.”

Sherlock came out of his room when the food arrived. He was in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, and he looked thoroughly exhausted. The doctor in John couldn’t help but notice.

When John had first moved into 221B, he had taken Sherlock’s health at face value, but as he had become better acquainted with him, he felt that he could encourage him to better care for himself, especially when it came to eating. It had been a struggle at first because Sherlock had resisted all efforts to change his habits. Realizing that wasn’t working, John simply made certain that he knew what Sherlock would eat and that it was always available. John was not a bad cook, but Sherlock would protest the flat smelling of cooking. Sherlock barely had a saucepan, and he had certainly rarely used it for cooking but more for his experiments. John purchased a new set of saucepans and had claimed them to be off-limits for anything but food for human consumption. He often made himself a poached egg in the morning, and he’d make one for Sherlock as well, and sometimes he’d fry up a little bacon. Sherlock protested about the smell of bacon, but he never protested eating it.

As their incomes increased with their notoriety, John found himself cooking less and bringing in prepared foods. He always did the shopping as Sherlock couldn’t be bothered with fighting the crowds, nor did Sherlock want anyone to know what food he was or was not purchasing. He was far too impatient and anti-social to be seen in ASDA, Tesco or Sainsburys. Sherlock would rather have spent three times the amount of money to eat out than to eat in.

John had wondered where and how Sherlock had been funded before they became flatmates. While Sherlock had worked on cases with Scotland Yard, he had never been paid. He still was not paid. He suspected Mycroft or the Holmes estate supplemented his income. Then there were the people who owed him favors for the cases he did take on privately. Even so, he had already made the commitment to move into 221B without having a flatmate.

John had thought Sherlock had needed to put on a little weight when they had first met. He thought the consulting detective was a little too gaunt, and he guessed that Sherlock had put on perhaps fifteen pounds since first meeting, but he suspected since his marriage that Sherlock had lapsed back into his old habits. He was looking a bit gaunt again, and it was not a good look for him.

“Things well between you and Molly?” John asked nonchalantly as they sat down to eat the food that room service had brought.

“She’s great.” Sherlock said quickly. “We’re great. Everything’s great.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, but it felt as if things were unsaid that needed to be said. Finally John said quietly, “Look, I know we never do this, but what I’m saying is…if you need someone to talk to, I’m here to listen.”

“And make a snarky comeback.”

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black.” John said.

Sherlock thought about John’s words, and his father’s words came back to haunt him. Open his heart, be vulnerable. He wasn’t good at either thing. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly. “Fine. I’ll ring the church bells when I’m ready to unleash my soul.”

“Well, at least tomorrow should be nice. Meeting Dzubenko’s family.”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

Dzubenko’s home was in Zorya, a little hamlet just east of Kiev, and Sherlock and John arrived at his home just past 1300 hours. The trees in the yard were full of red and golden fall colors, but the grass hadn’t quite turned brown yet. The house was a 2-story brick and stone structure that didn’t seem more than twenty years old, and it sat on a few acres, one of which was turned into farming although all of the crops had been harvested and the land lay fallow for winter. There was a nice chicken coop layout that was completely fenced in to keep the foxes and stray dogs out, and Dzubenko insisted that they did not eat the chickens but only had them for eggs. He rolled his eyes with a bit of a groan that they ate a lot of eggs in one way or another and that sometimes he gave the eggs to the neighbors just to force a change in the menu.

The back yard had a lot of room for children to play and included a sturdy swing set and slide and a refurbished old gypsy wagon that the children used as a playhouse and fort. There was also a small basketball court although the cemented area also had lots of colorful chalk drawings in various states of disintegration. Every house in the neighborhood had the same amount of acreage, but it was by no means a wealthy neighborhood. It was quite rural in setting but had been developed within the last fifty years to its current layout.

His wife, Tsura, and his six children, an equal mix of boys and girls, were all dressed in traditional Ukrainian dress and had not been home from church long before Sherlock and John arrived via taxi.

Tsura greeted them each with kisses to the cheeks and said “Welcome” in perfect English, but there was a slight accent to it. She was a lovely woman with sparkling blue eyes and an abundance of crinkles around her eyes when she smiled.

Sherlock raised a brow. “You speak Russian, Ukrainian, English, French and… Portuguese.”

“And German and Mandarin.” Dzubenko added. “My wife has a masters degree in international studies and languages”

“I understand you speak a multitude of languages also, Mr. Holmes.” She said.

“As needed per case, and please, call me Sherlock.” He said.

A baby was crying from within the house, and the oldest daughter, Elena, brought the baby out. It was Raisa. John gasped and Dzubenko quickly said, “What better foster parents than those who have foster-adopted six children already and where the father is a policeman?” He took the baby from Elena. "My daughter, Elena, the one I mentioned who is your biggest fan."

"Papa, please." she blushed, clearly uncomfortable.  She would not make eye contact with Sherlock.  She would barely look at him.

"Go get that drawing you made of him."

Now the girl cringed a bit, and Sherlock noticed instantly. He was also suddenly uncomfortable and said, "Maybe later."

Elena quickly ducked back into the house as Dzubenko continued to pat Raisa's back in attempt to soothe her.  “Little one hasn’t stopped crying since she came here, and she’s hardly slept, and she won’t eat except a little sugar water.”

“Kangaroo care.” John suggested. “She’s unsure and unsettled. Put her in a pouch on you and she’ll settle, but I suggest you don’t put her down for a few weeks.”

“I’m afraid if she gets moved again and it’s not to be with her mother, she will have bonding issues,” Tsura said.

“She’s not going anywhere.” Dzubenko insisted as he kissed the baby's head. “She’s staying here with us until this whole thing gets sorted.” His large hands cradled the baby close to his chest.

Dzubenko continued to hold Raisa even through the blessing over the meal. She never left his arms, even as she whimpered occasionally. All attempts to feed her were met with resistance and more tears.

Sherlock found his patience wearing thin. He was never good around crying children even though this one had a small place in his heart due to her connection with Ionna, but he felt trapped and began to count down the hours until they left. No, he counted the seconds and the minutes. Finally he pulled out his cell phone and flipped through some pictures. He had a few pictures of Ionna and Anichka. “Show her these.” He said. Dzubenko showed Raisa the pictures, and she did stop crying. “Mama.” He said several times. Everyone at the table stopped eating to watch her reaction.

Whether or not Raisa remembered Ionna and Anichka was uncertain, or perhaps she simply liked the phone, but the pictures calmed her and she put her head on his shoulder and sucked her thumb. Within a few minutes she was asleep in exhaustion. Even then he did not put her down but continued through the meal as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

After the meal Sherlock watched from inside the house as John and Dzubenko played basketball with the children. John also rough-housed a bit with the boys, but he let the young girls climb on him too.

“You didn’t play sports, Sherlock?” Tsura asked as she held sleeping Raisa.

“I’m not really the team sports type. Fencing. Now there’s a sport. Archery. Or mountaineering. Even skydiving. I also don’t mind taking a jog around London from time to time.”

“You like the ones where your only real competitor is yourself.”

“No. I like not having to prove anything to anyone except myself.” He said.

“Ah, I see.” She said.

“No you don’t.” he insisted.

“You were ostracized in school because of your abilities, maybe even bullied. Maybe you were bullied a lot so you decided early on that you didn’t need anyone and you spent a great deal of time by yourself because that was how you knew to protect yourself. Which of course only made you more of an outsider and loner.”

Sherlock looked her up and down hard. He couldn’t read her for some reason, but she had read him, and it made him uncomfortable to be so transparent. “The bullying doesn’t stop simply because you become an adult,” he said softly but somewhat bitterly. “You just fight back differently.”

“Were you an only child?” she asked.

“No, I have an older brother, but he’s several years older and was already off to boarding school when I was born.” Sherlock said.

“Close enough,” she said.

They continued to watch John playing with the children. “Look at him.” Sherlock said. “He plays so well with others. Sometimes I envy him.”

All the children jumped on John and pulled him to the ground, although he quite willingly fell, and immediately Tsura called to them. “That’s enough! Come in the house now. It’s getting cold.”

The four oldest children were asked to get their musical instruments and give a little performance for John and Sherlock which included violin, guitar and mandolin. Sherlock grimaced inside, completely prepared for the worst, but he was quite shocked that they were all accomplished musicians. They played some traditional gypsy music and then a classical piece.

“They all get started when they are four years old,” Dzubenko said, “but they get to pick their instrument. Misha will start next month.”

“What will you play?” Sherlock asked.

“Violin.” Misha grinned.

“Mr. Holmes plays the violin. Perhaps if you all sat down and were very quiet, he would play something for you.”

He was on the spot again, but he had warmed to Dzubenko’s family and was handed the violin from Elena. His mind went blank for a moment on what he should play as if his entire repertoire suddenly fled his brain. He adjusted the tuning slightly. Whereas the piece that first came to mind was not something he would have ever played for Fabrizzi, he decided to play it for the children. “You might know this one, but for the little ones, I want you to listen for the sound of the bumble bee as it buzzes around and hops from flower to flower.” He took a deep breath and then launched into a rendition of “Flight of the Bumble-Bee” by Rimsky-Korsakov.

Even before he had finished, little Misha exclaimed excitedly, “Papa, I hear the bee!”

Sherlock finished with a flourish. He had not been 100% accurate, but it was close enough that only the most trained ear would have noticed. Certainly the children were in rapt attention, and they applauded appreciatively. He followed with a spritely Christmas tune and then with a more serious Bach Partita for solo violin.

Dzubenko picked up his accordion. “I don’t suppose you know The Chicken Dance Polka.”

“With some disdain I admit that I do.” Sherlock said.

“Time to dance!” Dzubenko said, and he and Sherlock immediately began to play the polka while everyone else performed the silly chicken dance. The children begged for it three times. Obviously they knew it well.

It was not until they were about to leave, however, when Elena shyly approached Sherlock with a drawing she had made of him that was taken from an old media photograph several years before. “Please, Mr. Holmes. Would you sign this drawing I made of you?” It was rather a good likeness.

“I don’t give out my autograph,” he said, and her hopeful countenance immediately fell. “But for you, sweetheart, I will make an exception.” He signed the picture for her and kissed her on the cheek. “Keep up with your violin and your art. You’re very good.”

Sherlock remarked later when they were back in their hotel suite. “That was the most fun – not like fun solving a crime – but true fun – I think it was the most fun I’ve ever had. He has an amazing family and wife. I’ve always disparaged large families, but I have quite changed my mind, John. That is a special family. I do hope you and Mary have more children. Goodnight.”

John’s mouth opened in disbelief.

It only took until Monday morning for Sherlock’s “hitting the wasp’s nest” to take effect. Perhaps it was the respect and fear that Sherlock commanded, but a policeman from Ternopil who had heard Sherlock speak, spoke to the police HQ in Kiev about the rumors and suspicions that everyone kept quiet. A manhunt began that morning, and by the afternoon an arrest had been made. Sergei Koslov, the son of Ekaterina Koslov, was arrested. He was not actually a policeman but had been arrested more than once for impersonating an officer.

Sherlock could see the picture clearly in his mind, but he had suspected the Police Chief was somehow involved in white-washing the event. Not only was her son involved but other officers as well. She had kept it quiet to keep from exposing her son, but other culprits under her authority had been allowed to continue. A huge scandal was starting to erupt, and it would take time to clean it up.

As long as he could, Sherlock would keep the girls out of it, although one of the policemen was likely the father of Ionna’s child if not Sergei himself. DNA samples would be needed to prove paternity. And there was the matter of who was carrying HIV and had infected the girls and was probably infecting others. He felt certain that if Ionna and Anichka had been his daughters, he would have sought out the perpetrators for very private justice.

While Ternopil began to reel with the news John and Sherlock spent two days, as promised, looking over old case files at the Kiev police HQ, to see if they could shed any new insights into unsolved recent cases. Out of eight cases, Sherlock was able to provide fresh insight into six, solving two of them almost immediately. It made him both highly revered and a bit hated by those who felt he had intruded on their investigative territory. He did ask, however, that his and John’s names be kept out of any press involving resolution of the crimes, but somehow he doubted that would happen.

Sherlock and John arrived at Boryspil Airport on Wednesday morning to leave the Ukraine, but Sherlock did not check in to return to London. That had never been his plan, but he had not said anything to John.

“You’re not coming back with me?” John asked in surprise.

“No. I have another matter to take care of, but I’ll be back in London in a few days.” He said.

“Is this for a case?”

“Private matter.” Sherlock said.

John boarded his plane back to London but Sherlock boarded a plane for Munich. Whether Mycroft or his parents approved or not, he was about to make an unannounced visit to the half brother he had never known, Ford A.E. Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to bear with me on this story. More coming up soon!
> 
> Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos!


	8. Chapter 8

Munich Airport, the second largest airport in Germany, was where Sherlock’s plane landed after leaving Boryspil. He was glad to leave the media circus behind and hoped he wouldn’t be met with one in Munich. He knew his coat, scarf and hair gave him away, but he somehow couldn’t part with them, even if it meant a bit more anonymity. As it turned out, there was absolutely no one at Munich Airport who was following his activities. He was, for the moment, an ordinary person on the flight. He was glad his movements would not be heralded in the press and possibly alert his half brother to his presence in the city.

He booked a nice room in the Sofitel Munich Bayerpost hotel and immediately set up his computer on the hotel’s WiFi. He spent a few minutes checking his email, looking at potential cases, but nothing caught his eye. He wrote a quick email to John to let him know that he had arrived safely in Germany and then sent a similar email to Molly.

CASE WENT BETTER THAN EXPECTED. GOT TO PLAY THE VIOLIN. JUST ARRIVED IN MUNICH. FEELING TIRED AND WILL STAY IN HOTEL FOR A DAY AND REST. HOPE TO BE BACK IN LONDON IN A FEW DAYS. HAVE YOU PICKED YOUR NEW TOPIC? SH

He never said anything too personal in his emails as he knew that from time to time Mycroft managed to view his correspondence. He knew Mycroft monitored him although he didn’t know exactly how much, but he assumed that no part of his life was completely safe from his brother’s prying eyes or knowledge. Although he had never told Mycroft of his personal mission to the Ukraine, he assumed he knew, just as he assumed Mycroft now knew that Sherlock was in Munich and why Sherlock was in Munich. So that meant there would be a bit of hell to pay between the brothers when Sherlock returned to London. Obviously Mycroft could trace Sherlock’s credit card to the hotel, and Sherlock hoped his brother wouldn’t make an unexpected appearance. He certainly didn’t put that past Mycroft. “Big Brother is watching” always was a double entendre for him.

A light drizzle of very cold rain turned into sleet and the season’s first snow fall that night, and he stood at his window on the top floor of the hotel that night and watched the snow. It wouldn’t snow much, not even enough to require city plows to be employed. The little dusting would melt by mid-morning, but while it fell, it was peaceful. Yet it was also lonely.

Although Sherlock had been undercover for two years dismantling Moriarty’s network, he had rarely had time to think about his isolation from friends and family. He was far too occupied with planning and executing his mission, not to mention the other minor cases he performed anonymously. Now, however, he was about to seek out a family member he didn’t know and who might not be welcoming. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was so compelled to meet his half brother, because he really didn’t do the “warm fuzzy family” thing at all. Maybe it would be enough just to see his half brother from a distance. He could deduce what he needed just from observing his body language and habits. Did he actually need to meet him? Yes, he felt a meeting must happen although he wasn’t certain if it would happen on this trip.

Sherlock knew from investigation that Ford worked at a small research clinic adjacent to the Munich Municipal Hospital, Städitsches Kinikum München, and he set up watch on the front doors of the clinic from across the street. There was small car park in front of the clinic with reserved spots for doctors and several spots for visitors. He didn’t know which car belonged to Ford, of course, but he knew that Ford would have to come out of the front doors eventually, and so he began his watch in the mid-afternoon despite the chill. A cup of coffee warmed his hands, and cursed to himself within thirty minutes that he needed to use the toilet. He checked his watch. If Ford worked normal business hours, he would likely still be there, and he took a quick break for the toilet, and was back at his post within five minutes, hoping he hadn’t ruined his chance.

He realized that he had no idea what Ford looked like and that he might not be able to recognize him. However, he was hoping that some family resemblance would shine through. It was always possible that Ford completely resembled his mother’s side of the family. He had managed to find one photo of the Holmes family housekeeper from the early 1970’s. A very young Mycroft had been standing on the Hoover getting a bit of a ride. She had been a pretty young thing but free-spirited by her dress. She had been slightly blurry in the photograph. He wondered if his father had taken it. He suspected so.

Sherlock watched as the clinic doors swung open, and he instantly knew that the man who walked out was Ford, and his heart skipped a beat. He found himself sprinting across the traffic, motorists angrily honking at him, one nearly hitting him and coming to a screeching halt. Someone swore at him in German, not that he didn’t understand it perfectly. German was one of the languages he found the easiest. He apologized in German as he hopped onto the pavement in front of the clinic. All the noise made Ford look towards the traffic, and the two men stopped what they were doing and took a long moment to stare.

Ford Holmes was Sherlock’s height. In many ways he was like a twin, but Ford looked older, older even than Mycroft and yet he was not even two years older than Sherlock. Perhaps it was the generous sprinkling of gray in his dark curls, curls that were longer than Sherlock’s although they didn’t meet his shoulders. He was thinner and perhaps a little paler. He had almond eyes which were a luminous blue that was absolutely piercing. His mother must have had blue eyes to get that color Sherlock reasoned as his own eyes were nearly grey but with hints of blue and green.

Sherlock moved forward, not in his usual large stride but at a more cautious pace. “Dr. Ford Holmes?”

Ford looked Sherlock over thoroughly, but there was gentleness in his eyes. “There have been suggestions that I resembled you, but I always denied any connection and told people it was merely a coincidence.” Ford said. His voice was not as deep as Sherlock’s and was soft and tired. “Couldn’t risk bringing further shame to the great Holmes family of Britain, could I? The bastard son. You’ll no doubt want DNA, so feel free to take samples of my hair. Tell me, how is our father? It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from him.”

Sherlock wasn’t quite certain how to respond to Ford. It was all at once overwhelming. The shock of the moment was completely inhibiting his ability to make any deductions.

“I’m sorry.” Ford continued. “I was babbling. It’s never a good idea to rehearse what you want to say, and I’ve rehearsed it for years. Now it just sounds canned.”

“I had things rehearsed too, but they have completely fled my mind.” Sherlock said.

More silence. It was a terribly awkward moment, but there was enough chill in the air that their excited breaths were creating little mists. Finally Ford broke the silence. “May I buy you a cup of coffee? There’s a little café down the street if you don’t mind walking a block.”

“I can walk.” Sherlock managed, and he immediately realized how ridiculous that sounded. Of course he could walk. He simply did not know what to say.

They walked mostly in silence down the pavement to the café, but Ford forced idle chatter by pointing to the trees in the park across the street. “One more cold snap and all the leaves will be down. I did a lot of winter sports in my younger days. Did you participate in any sports at all?”

“School sports? No. I was always afraid I’d injure my hands.”

“Oh that’s right. You play the violin. Sorry, you’re a public figure and certain information can be gleaned from the media. So did you ever consider a career as a professional musician?” he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not that dedicated, but I do still take lessons, which reminds me that I need to schedule one when I get back.”

“And how long do you plan to stay in Munich?”

“I’m not certain.” Sherlock responded.

“You’re waiting to see if we establish a connection worth pursuing or if this has all been a waste of your time. I understand.” Ford said as they reached the café. He opened the door for Sherlock and then followed him inside.

It was a bustling little cafe that sold various coffees, teas and baked goods as well as Panini and other sandwiches. It was warm in atmosphere and temperature, and the chatter at the tables was full of gossip and laughter. One young woman was proudly showing her engagement ring to her girlfriends. That made Sherlock immediately think of Molly and how she was unable to participate in that activity. They would have dinner with the Watsons when he returned to Britain, and Mary at least could fawn over the ring then. He smiled to himself at the thought.

Ford purchased two cups of coffee and a heart-shaped lebkuchen. It had a heavy frosting border and frosting words, “Ich liebe dich” in the middle. “For my daughter.” He said. “She always asks if I’ve brought her anything, and I hate to disappoint her.”

Sherlock said nothing more except a quick “thank you” for the coffee as they made their way through the tight squeeze of tables to a freshly cleaned table in the corner.

Ford immediately handed his phone to Sherlock to show him the picture. “Her name is Madeline Amelié Cosette Holmes. She is my life.”

The beautiful child had long dark curls and the prettiest smile. She looked like her father but obviously must have resembled her mother too. Sherlock could see traits of Holmes genetics in the girl. “Is she happy?” He asked.

“She’s better. Cried a lot after… well, I assume you know.”

“If you don’t mind my asking—“ Sherlock started but Ford finished the thought.

“How did my wife die? She was riding her bicycle and was struck by a car. She was in a coma for three weeks, but she was brain dead. When her organs started failing, there was nothing more to be done except to make the terrible decision to give up hope and let her body go in peace.” There was a hint of tears in his eyes, but he held them back. “Have you ever married, Sherlock?”

“I consider myself married to my work.” He said. He wasn’t willing to share anything personal yet, but that suddenly sounded terribly indifferent and cold just as it had been years before when he had said it to John. “No, never.” He added.

“She was my soul mate. I don’t think many marriages are actually of soul mates, not true soul mates. We were married for thirteen years, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone. We were expecting our second child, a little boy.”

That gave Sherlock a moment of pause. He understood that loss. “Did they catch the person who hit her?” Sherlock asked quietly, ever alert for a clue, but he realized instantly that it was the wrong response to the news.

“Hit and run. That would be a case even you couldn’t solve.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Sherlock said. Those were the right words, but his words seemed contrite and over-used.

“Thank you.” Ford said as he put his phone away. There was a long pause of discomfited silence. Finally he said, “I want you to know that I will never try to make claim to anything in the Holmes estate. It doesn’t interest me in the slightest. There is only one thing that interests me.”

“What is that?” Sherlock asked warily.

“To finally meet my father face to face.” He said.

That was one of the possibilities Sherlock had considered about Ford, but to hear it was nonetheless disconcerting. “He hasn’t left England for a long time.” Sherlock deflected.

Ford immediately recognized the deflection. “Does your mother hate me all that much?” he asked calmly. Sherlock thought he was almost too calm.

“She doesn’t hate you specifically. She hates what happened in her marriage.“ Sherlock insisted.

“So would she be against me meeting him even now after so many years?”

“Very likely.”

“But we’re all adults. Why should the child be punished for the sins of the father?” Ford asked and then he wrinkled his nose. “Something is burning.”

Sherlock began to smell it too. “Cooking oil too hot.”

“I have a bit of a weak stomach as of late, and that smell is nauseating. Do you mind if we go somewhere else?”

Sherlock nodded his agreement and the two got up and walked out of the café. Sherlock turned up his Belstaff collar against the cold and adjusted his scarf. “I’m curious, Ford. If you knew who I was, why didn’t you try to contact me? My email is on my website. Did you think I wouldn’t answer?”

“Possibly.” He said. “But you’re a detective. I knew you’d eventually come find me. Don’t know why it took you so long, though.”

“It’s only taken me a few weeks.” Sherlock said. “That’s how long I’ve known about you.”

Ford understood perfectly and simply nodded. “I have wanted to go to England and try to find my kin, but it seems I am not welcome in your country. Somehow my passport is always rejected. The closest I’ve ever been is sitting in customs detention at Heathrow. You would think a youthful indiscretion wouldn’t keep biting you in the arse but apparently it does. That’s the only thing I can figure out.”

Sherlock suspected the real reason was that Mycroft had Ford’s passport flagged to make sure he did not enter the country, but he could not be certain.

“I’ve been asked to speak at Oxford and Cambridge and the Royal Society of Medicine, but sadly I have had to refuse all invitations out of Britain. I’ve spoken in thirty-seven countries but not Britain.”

“What was this indiscretion?” Sherlock asked as they rounded the corner and were about to enter another coffee shop.

“I was stupid, angry kid. I was in the back seat of a car that my friends drove through a plate glass window to rob a store. I was thrown through the front window and into all that shattered glass. Nearly bled to death right there. That’s when the doctors made the discovery about my blood.”

“What about your blood?”

Ford quickly realized that Sherlock was missing a piece of information. Otherwise he should have deduced instantly. “The hemophilia. My mother was a carrier. Thankfully, I only have a mild case, and I go about my life perfectly normally. It’s hardly even an inconvenience.”

 _Sins of the father._ Ford’s words came back to haunt Sherlock. He actually had a wide range and depth of knowledge regarding various medical conditions as they invariably came up in his cases not to mention he had an insatiable curiosity for the all things related to diseases and genetic disorders. 

They ordered a round of coffee and a little something to eat, both still looking at each other across their small table to study the other’s face, then looking away suddenly.

“I’ve read some of your papers.” Sherlock finally said.

“Have you? Not easy reading. What did you think?” he asked. “And I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“I thought they were brilliant.” Sherlock said simply. “I can’t say I totally agree.”

“Not many do. I’m standing against the tide.”

“But you were thorough in your research, and you used only science to support your work. Your writing is pithy without being superfluous. I can appreciate it, but like I said, I don’t totally agree, but neither can I disagree with your observations. Your arguments are most sound and compelling.”

“So you understood what you read?”

“Of course.” Sherlock said. “It was actually a pleasure to read something on that level. Most scientific writing is akin to factual and statistical vomit on the page.”

That made Ford laugh a little. He had a gentle laugh. “The word ‘pleasure’ is not usually associated with my writings. ‘Hellish expository prose’ is how most of my colleagues phrase it.”

“Then they’re not really your colleagues, are they?” Sherlock said with a raised brow. It wasn’t really a question. It was a statement, and Ford understood immediately.

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Ford looked at his watch. “Madeline’s nanny is waiting for me, and I must be getting home to relieve her of her duties. Would you like to come with me? It isn’t far. I know we don’t know each other at all, and maybe you think I’m possibly a fake or have an alternative agenda, but I really am your half brother, and you do have a niece. Just come meet her. And then if you want nothing to do with either of us, it won’t matter. She’ll forget you completely in a few years. I’ve lived my entire life as an only child, so it won’t really matter that much if we never speak again.”

Ford’s home was in the little suburb, Schlössgarten. It was not far from the clinic where he worked. It had a bit of old world warmth on the inside and reminded Sherlock a bit of 221B, but only because Ford was obviously a voracious reader, and his burgeoning bookcases held not only the classics but all manner of medical books. There were so many books that they were stacked in piles on the floor against the bookcases. He assumed a housekeeper came on occasion, but yet there was something that also told him that time had stopped when Ford’s wife had died.

The child’s nanny, a lovely young German woman, Birgit, lived full-time at the house and generally had weekends and evenings off. Ford got Madeline ready for school during the week, but Birgit picked her up at the end of the school day and took her to any activities like ballet and swimming, but when Ford returned from work each evening, he put his daughter to bed, and he usually spent all weekend with her. Birgit was washing up the child’s dinner dishes when Ford and Sherlock entered the small house. She came out to greet him and gasped to see Sherlock, her eyes darting between the men. “Bruder?”

“Yes. My brother.” Ford said. “That’s why I’m late. Sorry. Sherlock, make yourself at home.”

“Daddy!” an excited shriek came from down the hall and Madeline bolted out of her bedroom, ran down the hall and threw her arms around his legs. Ford pulled the lebkuchen out of his pocket and handed it to her which made her grin with delight, and she kissed it. “I love it!” She hugged it to her chest.

“In German.” He said.

“Ich liebe es!” She said.

He winked at her. “Don’t eat it now. You can eat it tomorrow.”

Madeline then took a better look at the stranger with her father, and her mouth opened in shock. She pointed to Sherlock, and her little brow furrowed. “You look like my Daddy.” She said. Her accent was sweetly Australian with a French lilt.

“That’s because he’s my brother, Poppet.” Ford said. “He’s your Uncle Sherlock.” Ford groaned as he picked her up. “You’re getting so big.” Now she was at eye-level with Sherlock, and her eyes darted between the two men, still trying to take in what she saw. She reached out tentatively and touched Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock nearly flinched at her touch, but he caught himself and permitted her touch. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He had seen her somewhere before, but a rapid scan through his mind palace did not reveal any information. He rarely had encounters with children, but he knew with absolute certainty that he had seen her before. He had _met_ her before.

Sherlock touched her hair gently for the briefest moment. He felt he could almost place their encounter and yet he couldn’t quite grasp it. “Have you been to England, Madeline?” he asked.

“Australia, New Zealand, America, France, Germany, and I forget where else.” She said.

Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Just meeting Ford was probably shocking his neural pathways into an electrical firestorm. “Well, you should visit sometime. It’s beautiful.”

Ford set her down and rubbed his back a little. “Go put on your jammies. Bedtime.” She quickly ran off to her bedroom and Ford continued, “Said youthful indiscretion besides nearly causing me to bleed to death also lacerated my liver and spleen. I broke three vertebrae, my pelvis and one hip, and now those bones are quite arthritic. They weren’t sure I’d ever walk again, and if I’m on my feet too long, I must use a cane. I was in hospital and rehab for so long the judge allowed that to be part of my sentence. Events like that tend to reform you very quickly.”

“And the others?”

“Nary a scratch. They panicked and fled the scene, left me there to die, but the alarm had been tripped and the police arrived within moments and I was saved. I was stupid, so stupid.”

“Panic and irrational thinking after a crime are very common.” Sherlock said. “That’s why there’s almost always a trail left behind. Even those who pre-meditate their crime to the last detail panic the moment the crime happens. Call it shame or guilt or fear of being caught, but it is their undoing.”

“And has made you a lucrative career.” Ford smiled. “Please, make yourself at home. I’m just going to read her a story and put her down for the night, and then you and I can talk more, if that’s all right. Shall I put the kettle on? Would you like tea? Coffee? I’ve got some Jaffa cakes somewhere.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock insisted, and Ford immediately went off to tend to his daughter.

Birgit offered to put the kettle on, and she played hostess while Ford tended to his daughter’s nightly ritual. She had heard of Sherlock not through Ford but through articles in the newspaper, and she was a little nervous to be around him as if a famous movie star was in the home. He spoke to her in German and assured her he was not in the country to solve a murder and that his visit was strictly a social call which made her giggle nervously. She did manage to make him tea and bring him a plate of Jaffa cakes, however, and she turned on the gas hearth before she excused herself to go to her room, but before she left he implored her not to use any social media or to share with anyone that he was there, and she swore she would tell no one. Sherlock suspected that she would not keep that promise, but there was nothing else he could do. He didn’t want any of the attention that fell into his life to now fall onto Ford and Madeline.

When Ford returned nearly thirty minutes later, he apologized immediately. “Sorry about that. She had a few questions about you and didn’t want to go to sleep. And I see that Birgit has taken care of you. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, thank you.” Sherlock insisted. “She has supplied me with nearly an entire box of Jaffa cakes.”

Ford sat down opposite Sherlock by the hearth, and Sherlock suddenly realized how comfortable it was to be with Ford. It reminded him of some of the quieter, contemplative evenings he had once shared with John.

“Of course I’ve read about you in the press, Sherlock. You’ve made quite a name for yourself as a consulting detective, but I never hear a thing about Mycroft. Is he still living?” he asked.

“Yes, still living, and no, you wouldn’t hear anything about him. He works for the government and thinks his private job is to keep tabs on me and tell me what I’m constantly doing wrong. Though in all fairness he has managed to throw a few bones my way in cases for the government.”

“And does he resemble us?”

“No, he resembles my mother’s side of the family. Specifically Uncle Rudy. Mycroft is like a younger version of him.”

“Married? Children?” Ford asked.

Sherlock nearly spat out his tea. “No, he’s never married and no children. Neither ever likely to happen.”

“Do you think either is likely for you?” Ford unwittingly made Sherlock uncomfortable with his question as Sherlock was not willing yet to reveal much of his private life. “Sorry,” he quickly apologized. “It’s really none of my business.”

“Quite so.” Sherlock affirmed.

“So what did you hope to accomplish by tracking me down, Sherlock?”

“Not sure really. Curiosity needed to be sated, I suppose.”

“And has it been?”

“Too early to tell.” Sherlock said.

“Fair enough. So ask me anything you like. Anything at all. You’re here. Make the best of your time.”

The two men stared at each other for a while. “Sherrinford. Why did you change your name to simply Ford?”

“Wouldn’t you? It’s terribly posh and I’m not. Ford suites me better, and everyone can spell it. And have you always gone by Sherlock?”

“No.” Sherlock responded slowly. “My first name is William, and my mother still calls me that when she’s upset with me, but William, Billy or Bill are so common, and I am not so common so they don’t really suit me. When I entered university, I changed it to Sherlock, which is my second name. Extremely uncommon.”

“The famous Sherlock Holmes ego. I’ve read about it.” Ford smiled. “You really think you’re above the rest of us?”

Sherlock stopped himself. The conversation had taken a dangerous personal turn and he chose his next words carefully. “If you cut me, I will bleed, and my blood is red. Type A-positive. I have my weaknesses, like any human.”

“But?”

“But I have certain superior mental abilities and gifts of observation. Mycroft has them even more so. Neither of us tolerate fools lightly. He would tell you he’s living in a world of goldfish.”

“And what would you tell me?” Ford asked.

“That I suddenly feel as if I’m on a therapist’s sofa.” Sherlock said.

Ford laughed a little and quickly apologized. “Yes, I suppose I was starting to sound like that. If we were long lost sisters we’d probably be weeping and sharing recipes already.”

That made Sherlock chuckle a little, and then Ford laughed, but then both men fell into another awkward silence. “Sherlock,” Ford continued, “I know I haven’t any right to ask anything of you, but could you please ask our father if he would be willing to meet with me.”

The “our father” was a little grating. Sherlock wasn’t quite ready to share that term despite its truth. Sherlock stood up then. “I need some time to think that through.” He said. “Speaking of which, it’s getting late, and I should be returning to my hotel.”

Ford stood also. “Tomorrow I will be taking Madeline to Kid’s Kingdom at the Deutsches Museum. It’s very interactive and she loves it. Perhaps you would like to meet us there?”

Deutsches Museum was a renowned science and technology museum, but being in the interactive section among excited, chattering children was far out of his comfort zone, nor was he certain he was ready for a first family outing with his half brother and niece.

“I am familiar with the Museum.” Sherlock said. “I’m rather surprised that you would like it.”

“Because I chafe against pseudo science and lies in textbooks? No, I love science, but it must be truthful. It cannot be bent and twisted to force an answer or theory. Science is very much like math that way. There is always a specific, definitive answer, and all else, no matter how accepted, must be pushed aside.”

“When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Sherlock said quietly.

“Exactly.” Ford said. “You are famous for being a detective, but you are at heart a scientist and don’t bother denying it. You devour facts. For example, even though you are A-positive and I am A-positive, the body will eventually build anti-bodies to donated blood of the same type because the body knows it’s not the same DNA.”

Sherlock’s mind suddenly went into overdrive. Why did Ford mention his matching blood type? It was an odd statement that set off alarms in his mind. Was there danger with Ford? Everything had seemed to be going so smoothly, but Sherlock always suspected ulterior motives, and he applied that same suspicion to Ford merely out of habit. By coincidence, Moriarty had also been A-positive. Mycroft was not.

“Sorry.” Ford immediately said. “Somehow blood always creeps into my conversations. That’s the danger of conversing with a hematologist. So, is this good-bye and we shake hands and go back to our lives, or will I see you again tomorrow?”

Sherlock hesitated, then held out his hand and shook Ford’s hand. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Ford’s eyes brightened and he smiled.

Sherlock returned to his hotel and immediately checked his emails. There was one from Mycroft.

I KNOW WHY YOU ARE IN MUNICH. WHY DO YOU NEVER LISTEN WHEN I SAY DON’T GET INVOLVED? NO GOOD CAN COME OF THIS. YOU HAVE BEEN FOOLISH, AND YOU WILL ONLY UPSET MUMMY. MH

Sherlock deleted the message. Of course Mycroft knew he was in Munich. Mycroft was always alerted any time Sherlock used his passport anywhere in the world, although there were a few times, including the rescue of Irene Adler, when Sherlock had used a fake passport that he kept for emergencies in order to escape Mycroft’s radar. He didn’t feel that meeting Ford required such secrecy. He wanted to reply to Mycroft with a snarky comeback but didn’t want to inflame his brother further in a potentially volatile situation. His next email was from Molly.

LONG DAY IN THE MORGUE. TWO SHOOTING VICTIMS. LESTRADE WAS HERE FOR HOURS. HE SAYS THEY CAUGHT THE SHOOTER. NOT SURE OF MOTIVE YET. HE CHECKS ON ME EVERY DAY SO EITHER HE STILL HAS A BIT OF A CRUSH ON ME OR HE’S VOLUNTEERED TO KEEP AN EYE ON ME. I SUSPECT THE LATTER. TOBY THREW UP ALL NIGHT AND £250 LATER THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT HE ATE, BUT THEY TOOK X-RAYS AND BLOOD, AND NOW THE BUGGER ACTS LIKE NOTHING WAS EVER WRONG. TODAY THE STUDENTS WORKED ON DISECTING THE RIGHT ARM AND IDENTIFYING WHAT THEY FOUND. ONE SOD DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THAT HE’S NOT CUTTING A CAKE AND NEEDS A LIGHTER TOUCH WITH THE SCALPEL. ALSO, GOT THE SAMPLES YOU SENT FOR DNA TESTING. WILL HAVE THE RESULTS SHORTLY. MH

Sherlock sat at his laptop and replied to Molly:

NEED A LITTLE MORE TIME HERE. SOME INTERESTING DEVELOPMENTS. WILL SHARE WHEN I RETURN. LESTRADE IS A GOOD AND VALUABLE FRIEND. BUY HIM A COFFEE FOR ME. SH

He wished she were there with him at that moment. Meeting Ford had overwhelmed his emotional circuitry, and he had come to depend on Molly to balance and ground him in moments of private turmoil, especially when it involved relationships. He always tried to put her out of his mind when working on a case, but perhaps that was why she was in his mind now – he was not a case. It was a personal matter. He also desperately wanted to tell her that he missed her, but for security they had made an agreement to say nothing terribly personal in their emails.

Despite Ford’s brilliance, he seemed to live a very ordinary life, much as his parents led, but Sherlock was struggling to relate to a brother who could have such warmth and genuine kindness. It was something he had no frame of reference for as he had never experienced that with Mycroft. Mycroft and Ford were polar opposites that way, and Sherlock was somewhere in the middle although he knew he leaned far more towards Mycroft. Something was stirring in his heart, however. It was a desire to no longer be an outsider. Even allowing Molly into his heart had been an enormous step for him, but he had forty years of poor people skills. Nevertheless, he knew that seeing Dzubenko with his family and even seeing Ford with his daughter had been a stab in his heart at something he had been secretly missing and had dismissed. Now he wanted to understand it. He wanted to touch it, to feel it, to experience it.

He met Ford and Madeline at the museum the following day, and while Madeline explored the various exhibits in the Kid’s Kingdom, Ford and Sherlock continued to talk and to get to know each other, during which time Sherlock agreed to present the idea of their father visiting, but he made no promises of the event ever occurring. His mother would have something to say about it, and the idea would likely be met with great resistance.

Ford walked with his cane that day and was good for about an hour of walking or standing before he had to sit down. Sherlock shared recent pictures of his parents and even pictures of Anichka and Ionna, but he gave no information on their case. He only said they were foster children. He shared a picture of Mycroft. He even let his guard down and shared a picture of Molly.

“We’ve known each other for years,” Sherlock said. “We’re engaged now, but we’ve not set a date.”

“If she’s the right one, don’t wait too long, and tell her often that you love her.” Ford suggested gently. “Life is short.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement. Strangely, with Ford at his side, he was not as irritated with the children and parents, not even with the three-year-old who was having a massive tantrum and had to be carried out. It was almost as if Ford exuded a shield of calmness like a drug, and Sherlock found himself under the influence of his half-brother and his lovely little niece.

After a few hours at Kid’s Kingdom, Ford grimaced a confession. “Five-year-olds have limited palates, and I’m afraid Madeline’s is no different. I treat her to McDonald's after our museum visits. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t frequent fast food although I might if it’s fish and chips.” Sherlock said, but when Madeline looked crestfallen, he rolled his eyes and added, “I’m certain I could find something tolerable on the menu.”

The child took Sherlock’s hand and her father’s hand and walked between the two men, but half way there she asked to be carried. Ford was about to pick her up, but Sherlock scooped up the girl instead and carried her the few remaining blocks between the museum to the restaurant. Ford smiled his gentle smile. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

At the restaurant she was indulged with a hamburger Happy Meal which had a cute toy inside. She hopped out of her seat and went to Sherlock’s side to give him a better look. He feigned a little interest, but he did not know what the character piece was about. Madeline took a deep whiff of him. “You smell nice. I like your perfume.”

“Cologne.” He corrected.

“My Mummy’s in Heaven.” She said.

While Sherlock disagreed, he certainly wasn’t going to tell her that her mother was taken to a special room and burned. He had always regretted that statement to the two young girls who visited 221B several years before. It had been more than a bit not good. He smiled a little and simply said, “Yes.” Madeline could have told him any fantasy she believed in, from the tooth-fairy to sparkly, rainbow-haired, magic unicorns and he would have smiled and responded the same way.

Ford and Madeline picked Sherlock up at his hotel the next day, Sunday, and drove him to the airport despite Sherlock’s insistence that he could get a taxi and not bother them, but Ford insisted stronger, and there was again an awkward silence between the two men. It was broken only by the noise from Madeline’s IPad as she played Angry Birds. She shoved it towards Sherlock and asked him to try it. Sherlock’s first thoughts were that it was an insipid game with annoying sounds, and he did not really want to deal with it. After Ford explained the objectives and tips on how to play, Sherlock gave it a try, only to realize it was a little more frustrating than it looked, and he quickly gave up and returned the IPad to Madeline. He had no patience for it.

Ford and Madeline accompanied him inside the airport as he checked in, and then it was time to say their good-byes. Sherlock held out his hand, and Ford took it but pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace. “I’m so glad you finally made contact, brother. I hope it’s just the beginning.” He patted Sherlock’s back and then pulled away.

Sherlock crouched down to Madeline’s level. “Good-bye, Madeline.”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Don’t go, Uncle. I love you.” There were big tears in her eyes. One blink and they rolled down her cheeks.

He patted her back gently and suddenly caught her up into his arms tightly. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. I promise.” He gave her a kiss on each cheek and on her brow.

He did not much care for small children, but he would miss her. She was special. She was blood, and he adored her. He put her back into her father’s arms and then in a quick moment embraced Ford and kissed him on the cheek. “I have a little influence with the government. I’ll see what can be done about your passport.”

“Thank you.” Ford said.

Sherlock picked up his laptop carry case and slung it over his shoulder, then turned and headed for security where he was fast-tracked through. He looked back once and waved again, but once he was through security, he did not look back again.

It was only when the plane had taken off, and he was listening to his music with his eyes closed that he suddenly gasped, and his eyes popped open. _He remembered._ He remembered where he had seen Madeline. It had been months earlier when he and John had taken a stroll in the park with the baby. It was the day he had told John that he loved Molly, and it had been during the time he was trying to find the Moriarty impostor. He thought he had seen a little girl approach him with a pink striped ball. He was not a man who believed in visions or was given to them, but she had disappeared almost as quickly as she came. John had never seen her. Sherlock had wondered at that time if he had dreamed of some future biological daughter with Molly because she had looked so much like Molly, but now he could not deny that he had seen Madeline.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was. Between the Ukraine and meeting his half brother, the trip had taken an enormous toll on him, and he was anxious to be on English soil again where one of his first priorities would be to see a doctor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to the child vision is from THE BLACKBIRD SINGS AGAIN, Chapter 12.


	9. Chapter 9

Nearly twelve days of being away from London had taken its toll, and it showed. Sherlock looked defeated and exhausted. Although he felt a first meeting with Ford and little Madeline had gone as well as could be expected, by the time his plane had arrived back at Heathrow, his emotions had short-circuited and had actually left him feeling completely exhausted. Never had any child told him that they loved him, and he didn’t know how to compartmentalize that. Some sort of bond had already began to form, and he was afraid to trust it, afraid that Ford might not be everything he seemed to be.

He had barely stepped inside the front door of 221B, his suitcase in one hand and his laptop carry-case slung over his shoulder when he looked up at the seventeen steps he knew he’d need to climb and simply hung his head and sighed deeply. Seventeen or seven-thousand, he didn’t feel he had the energy. Caring. Caring took a lot of emotional energy, and emotional energy drained his physical energy.

Mrs. Hudson’s door opened, and she peeked out to investigate the noise, but her eyes lit up at seeing him, and she clapped her hands together. “Oh Sherlock you’re home!” She gave him a warm embrace, and he managed a kiss on her cheek. “Let me help you with that.”

“No, no, I can manage.” He insisted, suddenly determined not to appear compromised in any way as he started to slog up the stairs.

“You go get settled, and I’ll bring you up some tea and your favorite biscuits.” She said.

“Jaffa cake?” he asked.

“Fresh out, luv. Sorry.” She said as she went back into her flat and put the kettle on.

He opened the door to his flat and dropped his suitcase just inside the door. He allowed the laptop carry case to practically slide off his shoulder and almost hit the floor before he caught it. What he wanted more than anything was to be in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Then he realized that his alarm wasn’t prompting him for a code. Someone was already there and had turned it off. He didn’t have to look. The lingering scent of a distinct cologne told him only too well. “Mycroft.” That was the last person he wanted to see at the moment.

“You haven’t answered my emails or texts. Might I assume it’s because you’ve been busy having a happy little family reunion?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stepped aside from the open doorway. “Ah look, the door is open. The world’s problems beckon. Feel free to attend to them or create some new ones.”

“This isn’t going to go well for you, Sherlock.”

“What won’t go well is if you don’t get yourself out of my flat.”

“Judging by your countenance I’d say a spec of dust could knock you over right now, so don’t threaten me. What’s wrong with you anyhow?”

“Mycroft, I’ve been gone for almost two weeks. I just want to sit in my flat and have some tea and quiet. I am not interested in being debriefed. I know how to swear at you in forty-two languages, and I’m not afraid to begin. Shall I start in Afrikaans? I’ll do the languages alphabetically.”

Mycroft put his hand up to stop him and started for the door. “We will talk about this, Sherlock.”

“Oh will we?”

“Yes, we will.” Mycroft said as he stepped outside the door. “And Sherlock, I’d appreciate it if you could finish the Turkish Ambassador case. You’ve been a bit lazy about it.”

“Lazy?” Sherlock bristled. “I’m not the one who’s lazy, Mycroft. You knew already exactly what happened before you sent me in. It was obvious. You just can’t afford to be involved.”

“If it was so obvious, why haven’t you submitted a report?” Mycroft asked.

“Sometimes I like to make them sweat.” Sherlock shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“It’s not a game, Sherlock. I need resolution.”

“And you will get your resolution when they have all cooked in their own sweat long enough.” Sherlock said. “And once again, there’s the door. Bye-bye.”

Mycroft gave him one last scowl, and walked out. Sherlock rolled his eyes again listened to Mycroft descending the stairs. Mycroft met Mrs. Hudson at the bottom of the stairs. She already had a tray of tea and biscuits and was about to go up the stairs. “You know how he is when he comes off a big case. Always needs a few days to himself, and then he’s right again.” She assured Mycroft quietly. “Just give him a little space.”

Mycroft raised a brow in disbelief, helped himself to one of the biscuits and then walked out.

Sherlock did not bother to unpack his suitcase but instead went directly to his bedroom and changed into his blue silk pyjamas and dressing gown. He felt completely run down. He had to face it: he didn’t have the same energy he once did, but even so, he knew his real problem was that his body could no longer bounce back from lack of proper nutrition, and that was his own fault. He had never had an issue with gaining weight, even with a sweet tooth, but he did have occasional problems with losing weight. He trousers were definitely looser after arriving home than before he went to the Ukraine. He padded into the bathroom and stepped on the scale. Even with all his pyjamas and robe on, he had still lost 8 pounds. He rolled his eyes and groaned, then texted John.

I NEED A COMPLETE PHYSICAL ASAP. SH

John’s answer came fairly quickly.

I’LL GET SOMEONE TO SEE YOU TOMORROW. JW.

As much as John would have liked to have been Sherlock’s physician, their friendship created too much of a conflict of interest. Although Sherlock might have differences with another doctor, he would at least be afforded confidentiality, especially of anything he did not wish to share with John.

He texted Molly next.

HOME. SH

Her response was almost immediate.

OFF SHIFT IN 4 HRS. SHOULD I COME OVER AFTER? MH

He remembered Ford’s words to tell her that he loved her and to tell her often.

OR SOONER. SH

Sooner, however, was only wishful thinking, but she did arrive nearly four and a half hours later. She found him standing in the middle of the living room, his eyes closed and head tilted back as Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D, Op. 61 flowed out of the stereo system. He didn’t react to her as she walked across the room, but as she approached him within a few feet, he raised one hand and indicated for her to wait. He was about eighteen minutes in to the Allegro Ma Non Troppo and said, “This is the best part.”He was completely transfixed by the sweetness of the violin solo. It was as if he were able to drink it in, his entire body and mind drenched in it in an almost hypnotic state. Music was his brain’s pharmacy, for with music he could begin to rebuild and maintain his mind palace. He could regenerate the mental pathways of thought and reason, and Beethoven was always his composer of choice for that task.

She gently laid a file on his coffee table, and he peeked out of the corner of his eye to glance at it, knowing full well what it was – the DNA comparison results on Maria Abramovich, Ionna and Anichka - then returned to bathing his mind in music.

Molly waited patiently for about two minutes, then gently threaded her arms inside his dressing gown and embraced him, and he immediately embraced her in return. She pulled back with a gasp. “You’re barely skin and bones! Didn’t anyone feed you all the time you were away?”

He groaned and shut off the music. “Some but I don’t eat when I’m working. It slows the brain. You know how I am.”

“Yes. You’re a genius who lacks common sense.”

“I have a system for rebooting. First the music, then sustenance.”

“I have a system for keeping you healthy and strong. Food first, every day. No exceptions. I’ll order in some tomato pasta with chicken and vegetables. Don’t make me call your mother.” She was being rather maternal with him or he reasoned this was what John had meant when he had said that “girlfriends feed you up.”

He wrinkled his nose at the thought. “That’s below the belt bringing my mother into it.”

“She and I had a little discussion on your eating habits, and I have been exhorted to get something green down you every now and then.”

He sighed deeply, too tired to continue the conversation. Molly knew he needed his time to decompress and had actually been surprised that he had asked her to come over at all. “I’m glad you’re home, Sherlock.” She said as she gently took his hand. “And I won’t stay long. I know you need time to sort things out and rest.”

“Sorting things out.” He broke away and went into his bedroom. He returned quickly with two specimen bags, each one containing a few strands of hair. “I need DNA on these. Could you push it though, please?”

“What am I looking for?” she asked.

“Paternal connection.” He said. “Take good care of them as you always do.”

She stayed with him through his meal arriving and made certain he ate it all, which nearly put him into a stupor. She knew not to ask him about casework, but something was different this time. Many of his cases left him with a sense of euphoria, but this one seemed to have taken a bit of life out of him. “What happened while you were away?” she asked gently.

“Molly.” He only had to say her name in a certain tone and she knew he did not want to talk, but she was concerned.

“Sherlock.” She shot back in the same tone. “I don’t expect you to tell me about the assignments you take from the government that may be top secret. But if we’re going to be together and stay together, don’t shut me out, not even now. I know when something is bothering you. Talk to me, Sherlock.”

“What’s your topic, Molly?” he said almost coldly.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Why not?” he nearly snapped in frustration. “Everyone wants me to share my feelings. My father, you… I’m not good at it. You of all people know I’m rubbish at it.”

“So this case stirred up a lot of feelings.”

He growled a little. “Tomorrow I will ring Mary and ask when it would be convenient for us to come for dinner. Please do wear the ring on the correct finger so that she can fawn over it appropriately. What night works best for you?”

His defenses were up and she was pushing him too hard and knew it. Even so, she knew she had to leave before she said something she regretted. “Right. I’ll just be going then. You need your rest, and I’ve stayed too long.” She stood up and began walking towards the door.

“I love you!” he blurted suddenly, completely out of context and subject. He stood up also. When she turned around, he said again as he walked to her, “I love you, Molly. Some changes have happened in my life and I’m processing them. The changes do not affect our relationship except when I’m being an arse like now. I need you to be patient with me and not take my silence personally. I will make it up to you. Thank you for looking after me a bit tonight, and again, I love you.”

She gave him a quick kiss and patted his cheek a little sharply though not quite a slap. “I’m free on Thursday night.”

As soon as she left he picked up the folder she had brought, settled back on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. He suspected what the answers would be based on his examination of Maria’s remains and the physical appearances of Ionna and Anichka. He took a deep breath and then opened it.

The first page was a summary of the findings. The other three pages were clear prints of the DNA analysis. He read through the summary. Anichka was the daughter of Maria. Ionna was not related at all to either of them. Ionna had never given Sherlock any indication other than her belief that Anichka was and always had been her sister which made him suspect that either Ionna was adopted either legally or had been left with Maria at some point in her very early life, too early to remember anything about it. If she was adopted, did she know? Did she have any idea that she and Anichka weren’t blood related? If she didn’t know, was it his responsibility to tell her, or should he simply say nothing at all? He typed off a quick email to Dzubenko.

RAISA’S MOTHER MAY HAVE BEEN ADOPTED. CAN YOU HELP ME FIND THE RECORDS? IONNA ABRAMOVICH, 13 March, 2000. ALSO NEED DNA RECORDS ON ALL MALE OFFICERS IN TERNOPIL WHO WERE EMPLOYED THERE MORE THAN A YEAR AGO. BELIEVE ONE OF THEM IS THE FATHER OF RAISA. I AWAIT YOUR RESPONSE. SH

He wasn’t certain what he hoped to prove with the information except perhaps to get some closure on the case and also have some.

Dzubenko’s response came fairly quickly despite it being a very late hour in the Ukraine.

YOU HAVE OPENED A HORNET’S NEST IN TERNOPIL ALREADY, AND NOW YOU WISH TO UPSET THE HORNETS EVEN FURTHER. IT WILL TAKE A COURT ORDER TO MANDATE SUCH AN ACTION FOR ALL THE POLICE MALES. THIS IS NOT A QUICK ACTION AND MIGHT BE TURNED DOWN. I WILL SEE WHAT I CAN DO TO START THE INQUIRIES AND PROCEDURES. AS FOR IONNA ABRAMOVICH, I WILL SEE WHAT CAN BE FOUND. WILL CONTACT YOU WHEN I KNOW SOMETHING. YD

Sherlock knew that even if Ionna was adopted, that her adoption records were likely sealed and that she would have no way to find her real mother. Maybe she could start some sort of internet plea that could go viral. If she wasn’t adopted and had somehow come under Abramovich’s care, there would likely be no way of identifying her birth mother. In fact, Sherlock suspected that if the latter were the case, that the birth mother was likely dead and the trail would be cold. Beyond trying to identify her adoption records and possibly identifying the biological father of her child for prosecution of sex with a minor, he felt that he wasn’t willing to take the case further. His main suspect as the father of her child was Koslov’s son, but he couldn’t prove that without the DNA evidence.

Sherlock put his hand over his belly which now had a slight bulge. Molly had over-fed him and now he felt like the fattened calf, bloated, slightly uncomfortable and in need of an antacid. He knew she meant well, and he had diligently eaten everything she had asked him to. She had said she liked him lean but not gaunt, and he had promised to put some weight back on. He had a small paraumbilical hernia that sometimes made its presence known if he ate too much. John had seen him suffer a few bouts with it and had advised him to get it taken care of. A simple procedure would fix it and didn’t require an overnight stay in hospital. Nevertheless, since it bothered him only once a year or so, he generally ignored and forgot all about it. Now with nothing more to be done for the day, he retired to his bedroom to shut down and sleep.

Sherlock arrived at the clinic when the doors first opened, and John immediately met him at the door and took him directly back into an examination room. “I still don’t know why you didn’t want to ask Mycroft to use government or military medical facilities.”

“Some things are best left out of his prying eyes.” Sherlock said.

John ran the normal tests for a physical and pronounced Sherlock completely fit although his blood work indicated a need for vitamin supplementation.  John also suggested that Sherlock work with a dietician to get his weight up.  "But I'm talking to a brick wall, aren't I?" John asked.

"I will ask my mother's opinion on a vitamin supplement." Sherlock agreed. "As for the other, I can handle it on my own. The brick wall has spoken."

After visiting the clinic, Sherlock made his way to one of Bill Wiggin’s haunts in Regent’s Park. They hadn’t arranged to meet, but Bill was generally at that location on Mondays. Except not this Monday. Not finding him, he texted,

WHERE ARE YOU? SH

There was no response, and Sherlock was immediately annoyed. Bill could sometimes disappear into the underworld of drug addicts and not emerge for days. Sherlock suspected that some of the money he gave to Bill was spent on drugs, but Bill was generally such a good source of information that he knew he had to compromise a little. He wanted to see Bill in rehab and living a more productive life, but there was only so much he could do to encourage that. He knew all too well how difficult it had been to get himself into rehab several months before, and he had managed to stay clean so far although he wondered how long that would last. He hoped he would stay clean for the rest of his life, but he couldn’t be certain despite his intentions. Again he texted,

WHERE ARE YOU? SH

Again there was no answer. He had other contacts in his homeless network and immediately texted one of them.

WHERE IS BILL WIGGINS? SH

The reply came quickly.

UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL. PNEUMONIA. LO

Sherlock immediately went to University Hospital, and he made his way to a room that Bill shared with another person. Bill was asleep when Sherlock walked in, and Sherlock pulled up a chair next to his bed. The noise of the chair legs scraping on the floor made Bill’s eyes flutter open, and he turned to Sherlock. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Shezza.”

“Didn’t you go see John after we last saw you?” Sherlock asked.

“Too sick.” He said. “It’s in both my lungs. Nearly died.”

“Good antibiotics and you’ll be up again.” He said.

“Two in the network have already died from it. It’s hitting us like the plague.” Bill said. “Winter is supposed to be bad this year.”

“There are shelters.”

“For a night or two. Then it’s back on the streets. I don’t mind much living on the streets, but I still want to be treated like a human being.” He was talking too much and began coughing. The fit lasted about fifteen minutes before he could gain control again, and then he was exhausted.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to offer you my sofa.”

“Nah. That would be imposing on you and your girlfriend.” He said.

Sherlock scowled a bit. Bill had some very good deductive skills, and Sherlock wondered what about his own demeanor would have given away such a clue.

“It’s that little one that slapped you, isn’t it?” Bill continued. “Don’t worry. I won’t say nothin’.”

Sherlock neither agreed nor disagreed but simply changed the subject. “Bill,” he said, “Maybe it’s time you got off the streets and got cleaned up. Put your brilliant mind to good use.”

“Ah Shezza, you do care.” Bill teased, but then he began coughing again.

Sherlock waited patiently for him to stop coughing again. “I shouldn’t get you talking. Just nod or shake your head. Any leads on the little incident at my flat?”

Bill shook his head and closed his eyes. He was done talking.

Sherlock sent a taxi for Molly on Thursday evening which then picked him up as well before heading to the Watson’s home. She had a small but lovely assorted bouquet of flowers, and he had a bottle of wine. “Nervous?” she asked as the cab pulled away. She rested her hand on his.

“It’s just John and Mary. Why should I be nervous? I don’t get nervous.” He said simply.

“Yes you do.” She said with a slight smile.

They arrived at John and Mary’s thirty minutes later where they stood on the stoop at the front door. He held her hand for a moment. He changed his mind and put his arm around her shoulder. No, that felt too forced. He took her hand again. Again not right. “Stop fidgeting.” She whispered sternly, and she rang the doorbell.

The door swung open and Mary and John were both there, and Mary squealed with excitement and opened her arms wide, first embracing Molly with kisses, then Sherlock. John had the baby on his hip, and he leaned down and gave Molly a quick kiss on the cheek, then clapped Sherlock on the upper arm. Sherlock handed Mary the flowers and the bottle of 2001 Saint-Émilion per Mycroft’s recommendation.

The baby was put to bed almost immediately, and the four adults sat down to an exquisitely set dining table and a lot of perfectly prepared food including filet steaks, jacket potatoes and lobster bisque. If Mary hadn’t been so warm and dominating of the conversation, Sherlock would never have relaxed. Even so, he was not good at dinner table banter. It wasn’t entirely comfortable for Molly either. Somehow it all seemed to forced. It wasn’t like the dinners she had had with Tom’s family. Everyone was so friendly and warm that she had immediately felt part of them. It wasn’t that she felt unwelcome in any way, but that she didn’t feel quite at ease being a couple around others, even John and Mary. Sherlock certainly didn’t know how to behave in the manner of a fiancé around others. Both were counting the minutes until they could leave.

After dinner John and Sherlock retired to the living room and Molly and Mary worked on washing the dishes but stopped washing and took Molly’s left hand and brought the ring closer for examination. “That is an amazing rock.”

“I don’t get to wear it very often.” She said. “Well, it’s not really practical in my line of work to wear any hand jewelry anyhow. It’s mostly on a chain around my neck. I’m thinking of just leaving it at home.”

“Why is that?”

Molly swallowed hard. “Sometimes it doesn’t really feel like we’re engaged anyhow.”

Mary could hear the pain in Molly’s voice. “Tell me.” She said gently.

Molly struggled with her words. “What if two people love each other but maybe shouldn’t be together, but they’re both afraid to break it off because they don’t think they can live with the pain?”

“Oh honey, is that what you think is going on with you and Sherlock?”

Huge tears rolled down Molly’s cheeks. “Maybe. I don’t know. When things are good between us it’s wonderful. It’s pure joy. It’s everything I ever imaged it could be, everything I ever imagined he could be. But maybe it’s all just fantasy anyhow. It’s all secrets. He doesn’t really let me into his private world. I’m always stressed when we’re apart because I’m afraid I’ll do something that will give us away. I have a presentation to give, and I can’t come up with a topic because I’m so stressed. My heart is just racing all the time.”

“Have you told him this?”

“How can I tell him? There is so much between us that we already can’t say because it’s too painful. We just carry on as if they never happened.”

Mary pulled her into her arms and embraced her tightly. “Don’t you worry. I’ll have a chat with him. He’s not as famous as he thinks he is.”

Molly pulled back and wiped her eyes. “No, you mustn’t. It’s something we have to work out on our own.”

Mary needn’t have ever considered telling Sherlock at all. He had been standing near the kitchen door. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He had gone to ask Mary to put the kettle on when he heard the conversation, but now he knew, and he backed away quietly.

His knowledge of the conversation made for an uncomfortable taxi ride back to her flat. It was uncomfortable for him, that is, but he nevertheless firmly held her hand for the entire ride. She leaned against him. “You okay? You’re awfully quiet.”

“Fine.” He said, and he patted her hand gently. “Probably put on a half stone tonight. Where did she learn to cook like that?”

“She had it catered. Don’t tell her I told you.” Molly said in almost a whisper.

They arrived at Molly’s a short time later and Sherlock paid the taxi and walked Molly up to the entrance of her building. “I have to be at work early in the morning, so I don’t want you keeping me up all night if you know what I mean.” she said.

In fairness he had only kept her up an entire night once, but she had been a completely willing participant. “I’m not staying tonight.” He said, and that news seemed to genuinely surprise her.

“But you just sent the cab away.” She said.

“I’ll take the tube.” He said. He didn’t know how long he wanted to be with her that night and didn’t want the cab’s meter to be kept running.

“Why don’t you want to stay the night? We haven’t had a night together for over two weeks.” she said.

Words did not come easily to him in light of what he had overheard earlier in the night. He stood two steps lower so that she looked him in the eyes. “Molly,” he began slowly, “I know I’m a self-centered git, but I do love you so much even if I have a terrible way of expressing it or showing it. These things don’t come naturally to me as you well know. I am often dismissive of what should be the most important things in life. Don’t ever let me be dismissive of you.”

“Why are you saying these things now?” she asked.

It began to snow and she shivered a little but tried to stay focused.

“I heard what you said to Mary.”

She was instantly horrified and started to deny his understanding of it, but he stopped her.

“No, don’t. It made you cry to say such things, so I know they’re true. This has all been unfair of me to ask of you. Terribly unfair.” He took one step up so that now she was several inches shorter. “Molly, I don’t want you to be unhappy. You deserve happiness all the time. It’s what I’ve always told you, always wanted for you.”

“No one is bloody happy all the time.” She said quietly, and new tears rolled down her cheeks.

He took her chin with one gloved finger and gently tilted it up towards him and leaned his head down and kissed her. His lips were warm and soft against the cold night. “If you ask me to go and not be in your life, I will go. I will go so far away that you won’t be in fear of ever seeing me again and feeling the pain of seeing me. If you ask me to stay, I will promise to do better by you.”

She didn’t know what to say and just let the tears fall for a few moments. “If you ever disappeared from life, I would kidnap Mycroft and flay every inch of skin off of him until he told me where you were because I suspect he really doesn’t deal with pain well.” That made them both laugh a little despite their mutual hurting.

“He’d be screaming national secrets within five minutes.” He agreed.

Nevertheless she tugged at the ring on her finger, removed it and placed it in his hand. Pain swept through his eyes instantly. “You never did ask me properly, Sherlock Holmes.”

The pain was followed by instant relief. “No, I didn’t, did I?” he admitted, and he immediately dropped down to one knee on the cold steps of her building and asked her in a proper, traditional manner, to marry him and be his wife. He started to slip the ring back to her finger, but she shook her head.

“I can’t wear it, not even on a chain, not as long as we are still secret, so it has to stay here, and I’ll wear it when you come over or when we do planned outings as a couple. Until the day comes that I can wear it in public, I want you to find another ring that I can wear on my middle finger that no one will suspect. And it can’t be ostentatious or gaudy. Simple but not cheap.”

“Done. But you didn’t properly give me an answer.” He said.

“Yes. It’s always been yes.” She said, and they kissed again, this time more deeply. When they came up for air, he pulled her tightly to him.

“I know there is pain between us. We will overcome it. We will survive it and be stronger.” He assured her. He felt her shiver against him, and he rubbed her back vigorously. “Let’s go inside.”

“I thought you weren’t staying the night.”

“There’s more I want to tell you, but it’s too cold out here.” He said.

They went up to her flat and she made him hot cocoa. She knew how to make it just as he liked it, and then she changed into pyjamas and a dressing gown and curled up next to him on the sofa. While he didn’t talk about his time in the Ukraine, he did mention that he had just returned from Germany.

“Many things I thought I knew about my family have been turned upside-down recently. Like the fact that I’ve just learned that I have a half brother. I’ve been to meet him. He’s in Germany. He’s lovely. He’s everything I’m not, everything I wish I could be for you but don’t know how. He has a little daughter. Also lovely. He wants to see my father. He’s never met him. I sense a great upheaval is coming in my family, and I will be the cause of it. There will be fallout. The DNA samples I gave you a few days ago. Mine and his.”

“I just came to that conclusion.” She said.

“I’m 99.9% certain he’s my brother but I have to erase that last grain of doubt.”

She was transfixed by the pictures of Madeline. “She’s a very pretty little girl, isn’t she?”

“She speaks a bit of five languages already.” He said. “She’s very bright. And Ford – you should read his papers. He’s quite the genius.”

“So your father produced three genius sons.”

“It would seem so.”

She fell asleep next to him on the sofa and he spread his Belstaff coat over her to keep her warm, and he simply stayed with her all night almost like a guardsman. Eventually he also fell asleep, and they stayed on the sofa all night.

He did not bring up the topic of her RSC speech. He had pushed her too hard on that and felt a bit remorseful. Whereas he had known exactly what to present to the police in the Ukraine, she was at a multi-crossroad not knowing which path to take and thinking she simply had to forge a new one. He wanted to help her but now didn’t want to say anything at all for risk of offending her.

The following day Sherlock walked down the corridor at the Diogenes Club to where Mycroft was waiting for him in a private room. He carried a large envelope under one arm. Mycroft looked up from his newspaper when Sherlock walked in and then set the paper aside. “What was so important that we had to meet here, brother dear? I’d hope that envelope is your report on the Turkish Ambassador case, but somehow I think not.”

“I should have also taken a sample of your hair to see if you actually are my real brother. Sometimes I wonder.” Sherlock said as he nearly flopped into a chair and placed the envelope on the table between them. “Ford, however, is my half brother.” Sherlock helped himself to a cup of tea.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes. I told you already. What is the point?”

“I want you to clear up whatever has tagged his passport so that can travel to this country.”

“Customs is not my area, Sherlock.”

“Everything in the government is your area.”Sherlock said sharply. “Do it.”

“I will not interfere in customs.” Mycroft said more firmly.

“Then I will take this to court, and I will leak it to the press that there is another Holmes brother.”

“You will do no such thing, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped. “Mummy will not have it!”

“Is it Mummy or is it you, Mycroft? What are you so afraid of with Ford?” Sherlock walked around his older and slightly taller brother, and then he realized and gasped a little. “Ah. Jealous.”

“Of a half brother? Don’t be absurd.”

“Not of him. Of me. It certainly explains a lot over the years. You were the only child for so long, and then the dismal business with the housekeeper occurred, and I was…” Sherlock stopped himself and cringed at the thought. “I was the baby born of make-up sex. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Mycroft loosened his tie a bit. “I’ve never felt more like having a go at you in a boxing ring than right now.”

“Anytime, blood.” Sherlock said. “I hardly know Ford, and yet in the time we have spent together, he has been more of a brother to me than you have ever been.”

The words came out of Sherlock’s mouth fast than he could contain them. They were mean to hurt, and Mycroft was instantly taken aback. The words hit their mark like a flaming arrow and instantly burned him. Sherlock saw the flash of pain in Mycroft’s face, but he was too angry and annoyed to apologize, and another part of him felt as though Mycroft had had those words coming for years.

“I think you should go now, Sherlock.” Mycroft said while trying to remain calm.

There was nothing more to be said between them. Sherlock turned without another word and walked towards the door. He stopped at the door, however, and looked back as if he might say something, but he could not form the words of an apology even though he knew he had been in the wrong. Mycroft’s back was turned to him, and he was pouring himself a drink. Sherlock turned and left.

As soon as Sherlock was gone, Mycroft turned around.  He noticed the envelope left behind and picked it up and opened it and pulled out the contents.  They were pictures of Ford and Madeline.


	10. Chapter 10

_“And though she be but little, she is fierce.”_

A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 3. Sc. 2 - Shakespeare

  
Sherlock did not speak to Mycroft for an entire week. He needed time to sort out what he had said and done to his brother. He had not meant the words spoken in anger. He had wounded his older brother and wasn’t entirely certain how to set it right again. Ford had become a device between them. He also had not spoken with Ford since his return to England, nor had he replied to the email Ford had sent, and the longer he ignored both brothers, the more difficult it seemed to restart communication.

The relationships with his brothers were not the only area of his life that needed attention. Even though Sherlock felt he had salvaged his relationship with Molly after their dinner with the Watsons, he knew he had more repair work to do to strengthen their bond. He did find a new ring for her: it was a simple, twisted platinum band with several small diamonds mounted in a narrow groove on top. It wasn’t engraved. He didn’t know what to say even though the jeweler offered several suggestions. She wanted plain and he got her plain, and she loved it and immediately began to wear it.

He also was concerned about her wanting to know his private world, and although he could never share any government work with her, he knew he needed to up his game and allow her more access to his life.

He had not been in Bart’s labs since his return from Germany, but a minor case for Lestrade had him at their microscopes. He could have easily done the tests at 221B, but he had the benefit of being around Molly while working, and that alone gave him an excuse to be there. Although he did not need an excuse to see her, he made one. Because their private lives had become intimate, it had become increasingly difficult to remain completely professional and almost indifferent to each other in the labs, but they had to: technicians were always coming in and out and it wasn’t actually a private place.

Molly let out a deep, terse sigh as she read over paperwork. “So preventable. Patient died of meningitis. He came in three times complaining of a headache and a simple spinal tap would have diagnosed him, but each time he was sent away with medication for migraines. Now the wife is suing Bart’s and there is legal stink from administration to the morgue. Just what I need on top of everything else.”

“Not your fault. You only deal with the end result.” He said without looking up.

“But my findings in the autopsy will be evidence in court.” She said.

A technician walked into the labs and they both fell instantly silent. When the technician left and they were alone again he said, “What you need is a little time off to clear your brain. A fresh perspective. I already know you’re not working Saturday, Sunday or Monday. Spend it with me.”

“Are you actually suggesting a _romantic_ weekend getaway?” she asked.

“Dull. Boring.” He practically scoffed at the idea. He still didn’t look up. “No offense, but if you think I want to spend a weekend just sitting around with my feet up having coffee, strolling and shopping, watching telly and having lots of sex, no. Like I said, boring.”

“So sex with me is boring.”

“No. No!” he said quickly as he looked up. Well, that just got awkward. He struggled for the right thing to say. “I’ll pick you up on Saturday morning.”

Although it was late November, the weekend weather was quite mild and remarkably sunny although a storm system was expected early in the week. Sherlock arrived at Molly’s flat in a rented sports car.

They had driven about ten miles out of London when Sherlock reached under his seat and pulled out a box, then handed it to Molly. The box was beautifully wrapped, and had a lovely gift tag that read, _“Dearest Molly, Love Sherlock, XXX.”_ She thought it was unusually sentimental of him to give her a gift with such words, to give her a gift at all. _Romantic._ That was not quite like him. No, it was _never_ like him. Also, his words were copycat to the words she had said on a gift to him several years earlier when he had been so egregiously rude just before reading the gift tag. He had been stunned by her declaration of love and was immediately humbled, even giving her an apology and then a kiss on the cheek. Nevertheless she pushed all those thoughts aside and blushed with excitement. He had bought her a gift and had echoed the words she had written to him a few years past. The box had a little weight to it, and she surmised immediately that it wasn’t candy or something like a silk scarf. It was solid. “Should I open it now or wait until later?” she asked.

“By all means, open it now.” He said with a smile. “Hope you like it. “

She gently removed the gift tag and set it aside, and then she carefully unwrapped the box. It was professionally wrapped. The box was lidded and non-descript, and she lifted the lid to find a form-fitting piece of top-foam inside. She lifted the foam and gasped. _In horror._ It was a small handgun. She swore and quickly replaced the foam and the lid and moved the box off of her lap and into his lap. “What the hell? What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked quite innocently.

“You know I hate guns!” she nearly spat. She turned and punched him hard in the upper arm, and he pulled the car over at the nearest safe place. He shut off the car engine and turned to her.

“Molly—“ he started.

“Get that thing away from me! I don’t even want to be in the car with it!” she said sharply. She was trembling from raw fear. “Stupid!”

“It’s not real!” he nearly shouted. He opened the box and pulled it out and pulled the trigger. It was a lighter. “Not real. Little souvenir from the first case I did with John a few years ago. It’s just a lighter. See?”

There were aspects of guns that Molly was familiar with: specifically removing a bullet from a cadaver. She could measure the trajectory through the body and determine the cause of death based on the internal damage. She could determine the angle of the bullet, the distance and had even become fairly competent about identifying the type of gun used based on the bullet fragment. However, she had never held a gun and did not even like to be in the same room with one. And this gun looked remarkably real to an untrained eye.

He tried to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she pushed it away and turned from him as she gave into tears. His gift had frightened her terribly and she would have none of it, not even a fake.

“I don’t care! Get it out of here!”

“Hoplophobia.” Sherlock said. “Irrational fear of firearms. Well, we’re definitely not having any of that.” He started the car again and pulled out into traffic, continuing on in the same direction.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Same place we were going before. The firing range. A little something I’ve arranged with Scotland Yard at one of their facilities. I’ve booked a couple of hours. I like to hone my skills on occasion, and I want you to learn as well.”

“I’m not doing it. Put that thing in the boot and take me home.”

“No, you’re overreacting. I’m going to teach you all about guns and safety, and I’m going to teach you how to fire one.”

When they pulled up to the small car park at the private firing range, however, she was still shaking terribly. It was an irrational fear, he knew, but she would not get out of the car.

“Molly, what happened in your past to make you so afraid of guns?”

“I hate you right now.” She said.

“No, you hate facing your fear.” He said. “Answer my question.”

“Nothing happened,” she said, and he knew instantly she was telling the truth, but then what was it that was so terrifying to her? A car near them made a sudden, sharp noise and she startled badly and covered her ears. He remembered that she didn’t like thunder.

“Do you like balloons?”

“I hate them.” She said.

“Why do you hate them?” he asked.

“Because they make a loud noise when they pop and I hate that noise.” She said.

“Fireworks?”

“No!”

And then he knew. It was not the gun she feared. It was the noise the gun made. “Ligyrophobia,” he said. “Fear of loud noises.”

“Shut up!” she snapped. That was another thing she hated – when he threw out words she’d never heard of just to be appear superior.

He hesitated for a long moment then said, “I’m showing you my world this weekend. I need you to trust me 100%. I promise you will be perfectly safe, but you need to trust me to be your guide. Now, shall we begin?” He was so commanding, so authoritative. It was a side of him she rarely saw. He could be cold, puppyish, spoilt, snarky and rude all within a few phrases, but when he took on the commander mantle, he was impossible not to follow. One was compelled to be obedient to the tone of his voice.

Sherlock proved himself to be quite a perfect shot during his session which she watched through wincing and grimaces. When it was her turn, she was fitted with the most sound-dampening ear covers at the range, and Sherlock led her to her own booth at the target range. He coached her how to stand, how to aim, but her hands were shaking terribly as she aimed at the target. He stood directly behind her and wrapped his arms around hers, hers, but he lifted her left ear covering and said, “It’s Moriarty.” He put his hands over hers to steady them. He could not see her eyes, but they had grown steely cold at the suggestion, and she pulled the trigger in rapid succession until she realized there was nothing left. She pulled off her safety goggles and Sherlock summoned the target forward so that it could be inspected. There were a couple of stray holes, but the rest had hit the heart, neck and face. “How was that?” she asked him.

He grinned. “Perfect.”

After their session ended, during which she proved herself to be a natural crack shot, he drove them to a lovely boutique hotel. They had not set down their luggage for long, however, when he clapped his hands together and said, “Right then. Onto the next item on the agenda.”

The “next item” was visiting a large military training center inside a converted airline hanger which housed one of the largest rock climbing walls in Britain. Molly looked up at the 40-foot wall of vertical climbing and swallowed hard. “Your only job is to climb,” Sherlock assured her. “The harness won’t pull you up, but it will keep you from falling back. Shall we begin?”

She watched him ascend the wall as if he did it every day of his life. He was like a monkey going up the wall, and it took him no time to reach the top and ring the bell before he was lowered back down. He grinned at her. He was not even breathing hard. “This doesn’t actually come up in my line of work, you know.” She said.

“Up you go.” He said, and he gave her bottom a firm pat, something which caused her to gasp and glare at him. He had never been that forward with her around others. He had never done it in private either.

She began a slow ascent, checking each hand and foothold a few times before pushing herself up with her legs. It was wasting valuable energy, and by about fifteen feet up, her legs were already beginning to shake. Her foot slipped on a hold, and she flattened against the wall, clinging desperately to a hold. “Don’t think. Just climb.” Sherlock encouraged her. “You can’t fall.”

“I can’t stop shaking. I can’t do it. It’s too high!” She said with trembling words.

“Push yourself, Molly. Imagine you’re in a deep cavern and have to climb out. That bell up there is your goal.”

“I’m afraid of heights, Sherlock. I can’t do it.” Again there were tears. “Acrophobia, I know.”

“You are in a harness. Height cannot hurt you, so let go of your fear. Don’t look down. Climb as if your life depended on it, Miss Hooper. Climb now!” He said in that authoritative voice that again she could not refuse. She began to climb again. He stayed next to her in the climb, encouraging her, counting her steps for her, estimating how many steps she had left, but only a few feet from the top she was clearly spent and breathing hard. She had beads of sweat running down her face, and her entire body was shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry.” She said. She started to let go, and he gripped the back of her harness and pressed her against the rock wall.

“Reach!” he gritted. He was sweating profusely too, as the slower climb was a greater strain on his muscles.

She groaned and reached for the next hold, and he groaned as he pushed her a little higher. “Two more and you ring the bell. You can do it.”

Again she reached but she missed and groaned loudly. He pushed her up a little more, and she reached for it, but her leg strength was gone. He put his arm around her waist and began to pull them both up. It took all his remaining strength, but together they reached bell rope and pulled it, and she then collapsed onto him, putting her arms around his neck but barely holding on as they were lowered down. “I completely hate you right now.” She said.

“I know.” He responded.

Her legs would not support her as they touched the floor, and he had to hold her up as the workers quickly got them both out of their harnesses.

He slowly walked her back to the car, and her legs threatened to buckle beneath her at every moment. As soon as he got in to drive she said, “If we’re not going back to the hotel, just shoot me now, because my legs have turned to jelly, and I can’t move anyhow. I won’t be able to hold a scalpel for days.”

“We’re done for the day.” He assured her. “You know, most people don’t do the 40-foot wall their first time. They do the smaller ones until they build up strength.”

“There were smaller walls?”

“Did I forget to mention that?” he asked with a wink.

When they returned to their hotel, he made them a hot bath in the large Jacuzzi tub in their room and liberally sprinkled in at least a gallon of Epsom salts. He helped her into the tub and sat down in the warmth with her, gently pulling her back to his chest. She closed her eyes with a deep sigh as she relaxed against him and said, “Shut up.”

“I haven’t said anything.” He said.

“You were thinking of saying something pretentiously contrite and pseudo encouraging, and I’ll have none of it, so just shut it.” Her voice was slightly hoarse from exhaustion.

He deserved that and knew it, but it made him chuckle nonetheless. He had been about to say something, but now he kept his peace which was not what he wanted to do, because no matter what he said now, she would dismiss it. He was willing to share a bit of his heart and could not. Instead he poured her a glass of punch-flavored electrolyte drink and offered it to her. “You need to keep drinking. I don’t want you getting muscle cramps.”

They would both be terribly sore in the morning although he suspected it would be much worse for her. Nevertheless he had a full day planned, but it would not be as physically taxing. He gently stroked her head and said quietly, “Molly, I want you to take self defense classes.”

“I don’t have time.” She said. “I’ve got students and a presentation that I haven’t even prepared because I still don’t know my subject. I shouldn’t even be on this weekend with you. I am stressed and knackered.”

“Make the time.” He said a little more firmly. “I mean it. I want you to be able to defend yourself.”

“Is that what this weekend is about?”

“No.” he said simply. “It’s about not being bored, and you haven’t been bored, have you?”

“I hurt in places I didn’t know I could hurt.”

He kissed the top of her head, and he wrapped his arms around her. “We’ll both sleep well tonight.”

After the soak while her skin was still thoroughly warm, he had her lay down on her stomach on the bed, and he gave her a full body massage. She thought surely he had done that before as he seemed so skilled at it. When he was finished, he kissed the small of her back and promised her another massage in the morning, and then he pulled up the covers to keep her freshly massaged muscles warm, and he joined her between the sheets and moved protectively close to her, sharing his body heat. She slept curled against him all night, and he held her close, feeling her occasionally shudder and tremble as if perhaps she were having nightmares about their day together. He knew he had pushed her to new boundaries, but he did not regret it.

The following day they drove to a small airstrip near the Lincolnshire coast, and he helped her out of the car as she was still terribly sore from the previous day.

“You’re taking me flying?” she asked. For a moment she imagined a relaxing day of sight-seeing via a small plane.

“In a manner of speaking.” He grinned. “We’re going skydiving.”

She immediately stopped. “Oh no. No. No. I’m drawing the line. I’m done.”

He rubbed her back smiled. “You said you were done yesterday and you made it to the top.”

“I do not have a death wish. And I’m afraid of heights. Did you not understand that yesterday?”

“That’s why skydiving is perfect. You just jump and then you float in a glorious ride to earth. And you being tandem really are just along for the ride like a conjoined twin.”

“Have you ever jumped before with someone in tandem?”

“I’ve been skydiving since I was sixteen. I have over five hundred jumps to my credit, but you’ll be my first tandem.” He said confidently. “Not to worry. I have my master parachute license and am certified by the makers of the tandem equipment. But before we go up, you need a little training and orientation.” He took her hand. “Trust me, Molly Hooper.”

“And if we get up there and I just don’t want to do it? Because I don’t have anything to prove to you or anyone.” She said. “It’s not boring to sit by a pool reading a book. It’s not boring watching movies on the telly all day.” Her eyes flooded with tears and she could not stop them. “It’s not boring to take a quiet walk at sunset. It’s not boring to lay in bed all day, and sex with me is not boring. I’m not boring!” She punched him in the arm again on the same spot, and he winced a little. Bruise on bruise.

He had expected too much of her. Whereas he enjoyed the thrill of facing his fears, she did not. She was comfortable within the boundaries and limitations they set for her. He had not really thought of the weekend being about forcing her into new activities but rather showing her some of the things he did on his free time. “Forgive me. I wasn’t implying anything.” He said simply. “If you want to spend the remaining time we have sitting by the pool or watching telly in an expensive hotel bed, then we can go back.”

“So now I should feel guilty because it’s an expensive room?” She started to punch his arm again but he shook his head and glared at her sternly.

“What do you want, Molly Hooper?”

“I want – I want…” she started, “I want to spend time with you!”

“What the hell do you think we’ve been doing?” He felt his temper flare and immediately said, “Sorry.” He knew what she meant, however. She wanted to spend more personal time, quiet chatting, lounging around, things he still felt were boring. She wanted her definition of romance.

It was at that moment that pilot Jack Teller approached them with a broad grin. “Sherlock! Is this the one you’ve told me about?” He smiled at Molly and shook her hand vigorously. He was an older man with a good twenty-five years on Sherlock. “Been taking Sherlock up since he was a kid. I think he wet himself on his first jump, didn’t you Sherlock?”

Sherlock scowled a little at the revelation. Some things were best left forgotten, but Jack’s words disarmed Molly’s anger, and Sherlock knew that was the point. Jack put his arm around her shoulders. “Jumping out of a plane isn’t like being on the top floor of skyscraper where you don’t want to get near the windows. Even I don’t like that. You’re so high in a plane that height doesn’t matter anymore. It’s not like falling. It’s more like having a tremendous wind on you. I know this is Sherlock’s first tandem jump, so if you’d rather tandem with someone more experienced, I totally understand, and I’ve got someone lined up who has over four hundred tandem jumps. We’ve got some other students here, and Sherlock can jump with one of them.”

Molly hesitated for a moment then said grimly, “If I’m going to die, he’s going down with me.”

Sherlock grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Molly sat attentively through the orientation, not daring to miss a word that was said although it was clearly a little tedious to Sherlock. Although she didn’t quite have the photographic memory of Sherlock, she had always been an excellent student, always at the top of her class.

“If you start to experience light-headedness, give me a tug on my sleeve,” he said as they walked towards their plane.

Two planes were used that day, but Sherlock and Molly were in a plane with only Jack and an instructor who checked Molly’s harness with Sherlock to make certain she was securely attached to him though in truth several dozen points of attachment would not have helped her confidence. The instructor would jump with him the first time. It was not until the small plane took off, however, that she began to hyperventilate in panic. At that point Sherlock did not know if she was going to back out, and although he would have been a bit disappointed, he was willing to not jump if she really did not want to.

Sherlock reached around her and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not too late to back out.” He said.

“Shut up.” She grimaced. “If the jump doesn’t kill us, I certainly will kill you when we land, and I know how to do it and make it look like an accident!”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at the instructor. “Charming pathologist jargon.”

When they reached altitude, he braced them at the open door, the wind already tearing at them, threatening to pull them out. He could feel her heavy, panicked breathing against his chest. He had to shout for her to hear. “For the record, I have never found you boring in the slightest! I’m the one who is boring. I’m oafish and insensitive, obnoxious and rude, and any other disreputable adjective which is applicable!” With those words he jumped out of the plane with her and they began a rapid plummet towards the ground.

Her scream was involuntary, but the moment the chute opened she began to calm and enjoy the glorious, slower descent.

He brought them down in a soft, perfect landing, and as soon as his chute was completely down, he unclipped her from the harness. She pulled off her goggles as did he, and she began to walk away from him. Both were breathing hard, and his dark curls were blown every which way. “Molly?”

She had walked about twenty-five feet away when suddenly she _knew_ , and it stopped her. She knew what her presentation for the RSM would be. It had been right in front of her all that time, so close to her that she could not see it. _She knew_. This time, however, she would not tell him. It was her secret and it made her feel alive and empowered. She turned and ran back to him, throwing herself into his arms and nearly knocking him down. She wrapped her legs around his waist as their lips met in a deep, intense kiss. He didn’t understand her sudden passion, but he held her tightly and fully reciprocated. For once he didn’t care if anyone saw them, and neither did she.

They made five tandem jumps, and she was actually disappointed that there was not time to make a sixth jump.

They had barely returned to their hotel room when she could contain herself no longer, and she began to make love to him with a hunger he’d never experienced from her. He watched and witnessed the sudden blossoming of a powerful and assured woman who had stared down her fears and subjugated them, and now he was subject to her domination in a way that would have made Irene Adler envious. She reminded him of a tigress with raw, commanding strength. Whenever he tried to reciprocate, he was forced back. He was not to touch her but only to receive from her. He knew her muscles were terribly sore from the day before, but she showed no signs of discomfort as she completely conquered him. It was all he could do to stay focused, but he had already lost the battle as he stretched out his arms and white-knuckled the sheets. His eyes rolled back in his head as he relinquished his need for control and gave himself over to her, and she brought him to his threshold of intolerable pleasure before pushing him to an entirely new level. It was as if she had lit his body on fire, and he was consumed in the flame of her. The room seemed to spin around them, and he heard his own anguished cries of her name. He was not a man who cursed often, but choice, tart words came out of his mouth that he could not contain. He cried out the name of a God he did not believe in. He was not sure what else he said although he felt fairly certain “I love you!” came from his lips. He saw flashes of white as his brain short-circuited more than once.

When room service arrived, he watched as she ate ravenously, refueling as if she were a wolf who had not eaten for a week, and then she made love to him again with a greater intensity and fury, leaving a trail of love bites from his neck to his inner thighs. One thing he could guarantee was that he was not bored. He was completely engaged in the moment, and he could do little more than surrender himself wholly to her power. He would not beg for mercy. He wanted no mercy. He wanted everything she would give him, and he had to calm himself to receive it again and again, once more filling her ears with his agonized cries of pleasure.

When she was completely certain that she had wrung from him every last bit of his vigor, she bent down close. “Put that in your mind palace, Sherlock Holmes.” she said huskily as she took his face in her hands and kissed him deeply. She collapsed onto his chest as he gasped and shuddered from the aftershocks that continued to rock his body occasionally. She had drained him. She had taken his power like a sorceress, and he knew that night that this was not the same Molly that he had known for so many years at Barts. This was not even the same Molly he had given the ring to. No. This was a warrior princess. Whether or not he had converted her into an adrenalin junkie was another matter, but she had met his challenge. There was nothing to hold her back now.

He still knew that he was a genius, but was intellectual genius alone enough to qualify him as superior? In most cases he felt it was. He had several unique gifts that afforded him the ability to quantify a crime scene in a fraction of the time it would take a team from Scotland Yard to decipher. Then there was his photographic memory and ability to store it in his mind palace. There were few people in the world that ever truly mastered the mind palace technique. He had only developed the mind palace technique, however, as a means of compensation for not being born with hyperthymesia, a superior autobiographical memory. Mycroft had been born with it and could recall almost every day of his life down to the smallest detail, and for this reason he had never found the need for a mind palace. It was an ability he had inherited from his mother. For Sherlock, however, his early manifestations of genius had resulted in a scattered ability to recall and piece things together as quickly as Mycroft. Thus the life-long older brotherly taunts of him being slower, disappointing and stupid. Even though Sherlock developed his mind palace, Mycroft always disparaged it as a crutch and also suspected it was about as disorganized as 221B Baker Street.

He was never certain what Molly knew about his background, but he wondered if she would have made love at all if she had known he was a murderer. Would he be little more than a monster to her then? There was a true darkness in his soul that he constantly had to hide from her through trying to be better than he had been in the past, but he also knew that the darkness could return with no effort. He was Jekyll and Hyde all wrapped up in a trench coat and scarf. Being with her, however, gave him a feeling of being normal, being able to experience the things that regular people did. He could forget that he had a superior brain and intellect when he was in the deep throes of making love because those things did not matter anymore. She grounded him in a way that nothing else could, but he knew that he would always have to keep the darkness of his soul only to himself. Should she learn of it, it could tear them apart. He could only try to do better and distance himself from the darkness. That was the real reason he felt he could never be a father. No child deserved a father with a past like he had. No child deserved him for a father.

He pulled the covers up over them and gently stroked her back. He had unwittingly caused her to bond even more strongly to him by giving her the challenges that he had over the past two days, but he had also bonded to her in new ways because she had allowed him to be normal—his normal. Mycroft had always exhibited control over his emotions. He was perfectly calm and rational whereas Sherlock was like a spinning top, a sugar junkie with unfathomable energy. Sherlock would do the things that Mycroft would not. It annoyed Mycroft to no end when Sherlock was a young boy that at times Sherlock would wallow mournfully on the living room floor and declare that he was bored, bored, bored!

She had rested on him for about thirty minutes when he realized that she had fallen asleep in complete exhaustion. He did not want her sleeping on him all night, however, and he gently rolled her off, then turned her away from him and curled up behind her. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her back to his chest. He placed his hand on her flat stomach for a moment. Although he had no specific desire to reproduce, he could not deny that his body was programmed to do so regardless, and short of complete abstinence or sterilization, all the precautions in the world could never stop one determined little swimmer. He allowed himself a moment to wonder what it would be like to feel the movement of his child growing inside her, to listen to the heartbeat of half his chromosomes, to know that the fusion of their bodies had created a human being. Biological science and yet somehow mysteriously miraculous, and he was not a man who believed in miracles.

She had denied him the knowledge of a pregnancy several months before that had ended in a miscarriage in the middle of the second trimester. They had not been engaged when she had become pregnant, just had been a little sloppy and lax in taking protective measures in the heat of their first times together. Had he known she was pregnant, he would have, of course, done the honorable duty of supporting the child and marrying her. Nevertheless, he was completely relieved that the child had not lived. He was equally relieved to be released from the honor duty of marriage. Yes, he would have felt it was his duty to marry the mother of his child as it would have been honorable. It was old-fashioned by the standards of the day, but there was a part of him that was old-fashioned. Although they were engaged now, neither was interested in setting a date for a wedding or pressing the matter. He was content with the status quo of their relationship. She had so far given no indication that she wanted to accelerate towards marriage. He valued his privacy, his time, and his own bed. Although it was common to co-habitate with a loved one, he was not interested in that arrangement. It was not on moral grounds that he objected but on personal grounds. He needed vast amounts of time to process information, to work on cases, and decompress in complete silence and aloneness. He needed his own space.

It was different when John Watson lived at 221B Baker Street. Although they worked on cases together, they had separate bedrooms and led separate lives. John was often out on dates or at the local pub leaving Sherlock on his own a great deal of the time. Also, sometimes they could get into bitter arguments, and they would avoid each other for days at a time. That was of little consequence to Sherlock since he preferred the quiet and never felt particularly apologetic. Of course, when Sherlock had returned from being undercover for two years in Eastern Europe after Moriarty’s death, John was not living at 221B any longer. John had moved on both emotionally and physically. He was already living with his girlfriend who later became his wife. But that was John. John did not mind sharing his intimate, private space. John liked coming home to someone who made his dinner for him and liked to cuddle. John the romantic. John the father.

Sherlock was not a cuddler although he was completely tolerant of being entangled with Molly’s body. No, not tolerant, he shook his head. It wasn’t the right word. He had loved it when she had thrown herself on him at the airstrip, and he wished she would do that more frequently in their private moments at her flat, but often she still responded to him as if he had barrier around him and she was waiting for an invitation to be let in. That was his fault, he knew. With her, at least, he still had to work on being approachable and open.

He could tolerate the smell of coffee or toast in the flat, but he did not particularly want his kitchen smelling like the delicious meals that came out of his mother’s homey kitchen. That would only serve to throw off his valued sense of smell. Truth was that Molly had never cooked for him and he did not even know if she had the skill set. Even when he’d seen her with food at Barts, it was always from the canteen or a vending machine. He had never seen her bring anything from home. They had always ordered food in when they were together. It did not matter at all to him if she could not cook or could not be bothered to cook. There were plenty of establishments willing to fill that void.

The alarm suddenly went off on his phone and he realized that morning had come. He was not certain if he had ever slept, but if he had, he had dreamt of her exclusively. If he had not slept, he had thought of her all night long. She had not moved much, but now her eyes fluttered open, and she sighed deeply, contentedly. He wrapped his arm tighter around her, and that made her smile. “You’re cuddling,” she said softly.

“You’re the only one.” He said simply. “What you did yesterday, sweetheart, made me very proud, and what you did to me afterwards was indescribable. I shall never be the same.”

She smiled and was quiet for a moment and then asked, “Sherlock, why did you rest your hand on my tummy for so long last night?”

“Sorry. I thought you were asleep.” He said.

“I was until I felt your hand there.” She said. Then she added, “I’m not pregnant, and I promise to tell you as soon as possible if I ever am again.” She turned to him and took his face in her hands. “And if I ever am again, it will be because we both want it. You know how I feel about children, and you know that I think you’d make a good father despite your reservations, but I’m not going to coerce you or try to force it, because I am content with the way things are.” She kissed him sweetly but then added, “But should the unexpected happen, my response will be the same as the last time in that I will not terminate your genetics. Never. You can choose to walk away or you can stay, but I will never abort your DNA.” There were tears in her eyes. It was still painful to talk about the miscarriage. She had wanted his child almost more than she had wanted Sherlock. As emotionally painful as it was to lose their child, she also recognized that neither of them had been in a good place in their relationship. Now they were stronger and more open with each other. It was not perfect, but then it never would be.

“Whatever the future brings, I’m here to stay. I love you, Molly Hooper.” He assured her gently. He put his hand on her flat belly again. She covered his hand with hers, and he kissed her, then rolled her onto her back and began to make tender love to his warrior princess.

Their drive back to London was uneventful except for a brief stop at Hampstead cemetery where they visited the tiny grave of their miscarried son. Upon the insistence of Sherlock’s mother, they had had a new grave marker made.

 **EWAN OLIVER SHERLOCK HOLMES**  
**MISCARRIED AT 20 WEEKS**  
**LOVED AND NOT FORGOTTEN**

It was only the second time they had been to the grave together. The first time had been three months previous for the replacement of the slightly older marker which had read simply,

 **HOLMES**  
**SON**  
**MISCARRIED**

There were flowers at the grave. They were not fresh, and neither Molly nor Sherlock had put them there, but both assumed the flowers had come from the Holmes estate. She knelt down and cleared away the debris and dead flowers, and the tears began to flow. Although she was now his warrior princess, she was also fragile. He watched her grieve, feeling he had put his own grief to rest, brief as it had been. It had been difficult for him also but in a different way. His grief had manifested in an extremely unproductive manner: returning to drugs to soothe his pain, but after a stint in rehab, he had now been clean for several months, even giving up cigarettes, although he constantly craved the later. He was afraid, however, that if he picked up the cigarette habit again that it might only open the gateway back into drugs.

It was not so much the loss of the child that grieved her but the extraordinary pain she had felt in fear of having damaged her fragile relationship with Sherlock. She feared losing him forever. After so many years of pining for him and maintaining his deepest secrets to actually have the beginnings of a deeper friendship and relationship, she had nearly ruined it for both of them by keeping the pregnancy clandestine. She had thought he would not want any part of the child since he had strongly said he did not want children, and she was determined to raise it on her own anyhow. She assumed she knew him, and she still grieved over her presumptions that nearly cost her their relationship. She was not entirely certain why he had stayed with her after the miscarriage since it provided him with an easy way out of their relationship. She hoped he had not stayed out of guilt. She hoped their engagement had not been out of guilt. She hoped their current relationship was not based on a foundation of guilt.

He bent down beside her and laid a comforting hand on her back. “I would not have left you or our son, Molly. I would have been quite devastated if you had carried him to full term and had shut me out of your lives because you were afraid I would reject you for your decision.” There were tears in his own eyes, and he struggled for words. She was the only one in his life that he felt he could truly share his heart with, small though it was. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way, that you didn’t have an option. Please forgive me.”

She stood up and wiped her eyes, and he stood up beside her and put his arm around her. She leaned into him and he added gently, “You can’t hold onto me by trying to hold onto a piece of me. It doesn’t work like that.”

“It was stupid, I know. I’m sorry.” She said.

He led her to a cast iron bench beneath a shading tree whose fall-colored leaves were dropping at the slightest breeze. They sat down together, their son’s grave still in view. He was quiet for a long time, and she could see that he was struggling with his words. “Just before Moriarty killed himself on Bart’s rooftop, he and I had this bizarre conversation about me being on the side of angels but that I wasn’t one of them. I was willing to shake his hand in Hell. But then he said that I was him, and he was right. I’m no better. I’m no different. We’re two sides of the same tarnished coin.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and could not face her. “Last Christmas I lost control. My hatred of a man and the evil that he was doing consumed and blinded me. I got out-played and lives were at stake, and I solved the problem not with my mind but with violence. I shot him point blank. I murdered him.”

She gasped a little. Of all the things to hear, she was not expecting a confession.

“That’s why I was being sent away on a mission. I was not expected to survive more than six months. It was a form of exile, capital punishment if you will. The Crown pardoned me to deal with the Moriarty crisis.”

She was not certain what to do with his revelation, nor was she certain how to respond to him. Before she could say anything, however, he added, “I just want you to know that I do not regret my actions. I don’t know if I ever will. I did what I felt had to be done to end a problem, but it was done in the heat of my own rage towards the man. You need to ask yourself if a murderer is the kind of man you want to be in your life or to father your children. I’m not a religious man, but if I were, I’d have to think perhaps there was some divine intervention in the loss of our son, as if the universe is saying that I don’t deserve a child.” That statement caused tears to fall because somewhere in a dark corner of his heart a little candle burned for the hope of a family life that he saw others enjoy, and the candle had burned a little brighter since meeting Dzubenko’s and Ford’s families. That little bit of hope that he sensed he was not worthy of was very painful indeed.

“Sherlock, stop. It wasn’t your fault our son was miscarried any more than it was my fault. It was a placental abruption. It just happened. My theory is that the little guy just got bored and needed something to do so he decided to make an early exit. He would have got that trait from you.” That made him chuckle a little despite his confession, and he took a moment to wipe back his tears. She entwined her fingers with his. “If the Crown pardoned you, then there was something more than Moriarty that was extraordinary about the circumstance, wasn’t there?”

He took a deep breath and nodded, but he did not elaborate further. “Don’t be dismissive of the gravity of what I have said.” He said.

“I’m not.” She squeezed his hand and patted it. “To be honest, I guess I’ve thought you had already killed someone at some time. Like when you were gone for two years after Moriarty’s death. I assumed it was part of the job requirements.”

“What if I lose control like that again? I don’t ever want to be that angry with you or a child, but I am capable of that rage, and that scares me. It should scare you too.”

“When it doesn’t scare you, then I will have genuine reason to be afraid.” She brushed a lock of dark hair from his eyes. “I still see you, Sherlock, even when you are trying to conceal your feelings. I see you. You’re not a freak. You’re not a psychopath or a sociopath. You’re not. You’re not disappointing. Despite your extraordinary mind, you’re still human and breakable.” She leaned against him and pulled his arm around her. “We’re both a bit broken and damaged, but somehow our pieces fit together.”

He had to restrain himself from saying something contradictory and dismissive. He thought that was perhaps the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him, and he wasn’t instantly accepting of her words because he saw only his faults and years of being put down. But maybe, just maybe there was something worth loving in him after all.

“I’m owed favors by the royals in Monaco. Little embezzlement case that I solved some years ago. I’ve recently made some confidential inquiries about getting married there. The Sainte-Dévote Chapel is beautiful.” She gasped in shock and he continued, “They were willing to overlook all requirements and create a special dispensation for us except for one little item. We’re not Roman Catholic. Turns out that’s a stickler there. Dammit.”

She remained in shock by his statement. “I thought we weren’t pushing this.”

“We’re not. I’m not.” He assured her. “It was just an inquiry, just testing the waters. Nevertheless, I don’t want to put this off indefinitely. Perhaps we could look towards Christmas next year?”

“Oh.” She was a little stunned but it was not an unwelcome suggestion.

“But I do know where I want to go with you after said event. Some place where we can be out of the reach of even the longest paparazzi lens.”

“Is there such a place?” she asked.

“Many, but the one I have in mind is extraordinarily special.” He said.

“Are you going to give me a hint?” she asked.

He smiled and gave her a warm squeeze which made her wince. She was still quite sore. “I’d rather keep that my secret for now.”

They had spent the better part of three days together that would take her body a few more days to recover from and during which time he had ignored all attempts at communication from John and Mycroft, and that turned out to be a very big mistake.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock drove Molly back to her flat after their weekend together, and he pulled up in front and helped her up to her apartment with her small suitcase.  Finally at her door he bent down and kissed her sweetly.  “Get some rest. I love you.”

“Sure you don’t want to come in?”

“I need to get the car back, and I’ve got business to take care of. Mycroft seems desperate to speak to me, and John’s going on about something.” He said.  He kissed her again and gently touched her cheek with his gloved hand. “I’ll call you later.”

Sherlock returned the car to the rental agency, and as he was signing off, he saw the reflection of one of Mycroft’s government cars pull up.  He knew instantly that Mycroft was inside the car waiting for him.  Somehow he realized he should have expected as much, but it still annoyed him to be constantly dogged by his older brother.  As soon as he walked out with his suitcase, the driver of the car got out and greeted him quietly as he opened the back door.  Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment and then stepped into the back of the car while the driver put his suitcase in the boot. 

Sherlock sat back in his seat and clipped himself into his seatbelt but did not make eye contact with his brother. Their relationship was currently more strained than normal, but Mycroft always seemed to be able to start a conversation.  “So this is how it’s going to be, is it?  You’re off with Miss Hooper—“

“Molly.” Sherlock corrected.

“Molly.” Mycroft said.  This was going to be a difficult conversation already.  “You’re off with Molly for a long weekend.  At the firing range, the training center and skydiving.  Might we expect a new recruit in MI6?”

“Absurd.” Sherlock said curtly.

“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed. 

Silence fell between the brothers and Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the scenery passing by his window.  He wanted to apologize for his words spoken so angrily more than a week before, but somehow he couldn’t quite start the conversation.

“So things are still going well between you two?” Mycroft continued the awkward banter.

“Yes, we’re still a couple.  Coupling. As a couple.” Sherlock said.

“So you’re still planning to—“

“Commit sacred nuptials?  In time.”

“Sherlock—“ Mycroft started, but Sherlock immediately interrupted him.

“I didn’t mean it, Mycroft. Well, I did mean at the time, but I was angry, and I shouldn’t have said it.” He blurted. “It was wrong of me.  Sorry.“  He didn’t know why his words came out so hurly burly.  In general he never apologized to Mycroft.

That took Mycroft a bit by surprise because that wasn’t what he had been planning to discuss, and it left him at loss for words for a moment. He also wasn’t entirely certain it was actually a complete apology, but he knew that was all he was going to get. “Thank you.  Apology accepted.” 

“Any other family secrets you wish to share at this time?”

“I’ll let you know if something comes to mind.” Mycroft said dryly.

“No skeletons in Mummy’s closet?”

“Only the one you put there when you were nine.”  

“The raw steaks draped over the bones and red sauce were probably the real problem.” Sherlock said.  It made him smile at the memory, and Mycroft worked hard to suppress a smile.  It wasn’t something Mycroft would have ever done as a child as he had always been a terribly obedient and respectful, but somehow giving their mother a bit of a fright had always secretly delighted him. And then Sherlock simply couldn’t contain himself and he giggled.  Mycroft rolled his eyes and allowed one chuckle to escape.  Just one. 

“Got the stinger for that one, didn’t you?” Mycroft asked.

“Mmm.” Sherlock remembered.

Their mother had always been more of the disciplinarian than their father, but even in a time of more progressive methods of disciplining children, there were some infractions that she felt required something more severe.  That’s when she had their father design a short, thin but sturdy schoolmaster’s paddle which had the words “The Stinger” burned down the length.  It had only been used on Sherlock twice, and the skeleton in the closet was one of those times, but it lived up to its reputation as even one swat to the bare buttocks produced a fierce sting, and he had received five.

“Yes, well that’s not why I’ve met you at the car rental.” Mycroft said.

“I assumed not.” Sherlock said

“While you have been consorting with Molly,” Mycroft continued, “there have been some developments in the case of the Turkish Ambassador.” 

“What developments?” Sherlock shrugged.  “Arrest the MP’s son.  He obviously stole the documents. Even you knew that. It’s simple.”

“Except he’s dead.” Mycroft said simply.  “Murdered in fact.”

“Murdered?” Sherlock turned to his brother then.

“Last night.  And the girlfriend is missing.”

“Kidnapped?”

“You tell me.” Mycroft said dryly.  “The young man would likely still be alive if you hadn’t gone off to the Ukraine and Germany and been gallivanting around with your girlfriend.  You’ve let things slide and now someone is dead.”

“No, Mycroft.  He’s dead because he did something stupid.  Got himself in over his head and paid the ultimate price. He does still have it?  His head?”

“Is that supposed to be one of your morbid jokes?”

“I’m living in a country that has allowed the doorway to open for Sharia law, where one of our soldiers was nearly decapitated by an Islamic extremist on the streets of London, and you think I’m making a joke about keeping his head when we are talking about stolen documents between two Islamic countries?”

“He has his head.” Mycroft said grimly.

“The body is in Manchester, I assume, or has it been moved down to London?”

“Manchester.”

“Then I should be on my way up there as soon as possible.”

“I would appreciate it if you gave this your full attention until it is resolved, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly despite already feeling intensely annoyed.  “Have you asked yourself the question why the Turkish Ambassador would have brought such papers to Paulson’s house in the first place?  Surely for two men having a simple dinner to relive old uni times such confidential paperwork could have been left at the Turkish Embassy? No, Paulson is a decorated military man who now toils in the boredom of urban infrastructure, budgets and ribbon cuttings.  He misses the action.  One of the two men wants to cross sides.  The questions is who?  The Ambassador will claim diplomatic immunity although I’m sure you can figure a way around that if need be.  Now the idiot son and his girlfriend have got themselves involved which means Paulson knew the contents of the stolen documents before they arrived and told his son. This is all politics and I generally don’t concern myself with politics.  This has become a job for MI5, and I’m not on that payroll.”

“You could be.”

“No, I really couldn’t.” Sherlock said.  “Have Paulson apprehended but don’t make it public.  A grieving man gives up secrets.  I’ll be in Manchester tonight.”

Going to Manchester had not been on Sherlock’s agenda at all, but Mycroft’s driver took him to Euston Station and Sherlock was on a train within the hour heading north in a trip that would take him just under 2-½  hours.  He did not go back to Baker Street at all but directly to the train.  He wasn’t entirely pleased with being unable to refresh the contents of his suitcase, and he had no idea where he would stay but perhaps Mycroft would have that arranged by the time he arrived.  He texted Molly on the train.

ON MY WAY TO MANCHESTER. ON A CASE. SH

He followed it with a text to John.

GOING TO MANCHESTER.  THERE HAS BEEN A MURDER.  SH

John responded almost immediately.

BILL WIGGINS NOT DOING WELL.  VIRULENT STRAIN OF PNEUMONIA. PHE INVOLVED. I HAVE VOLUNTEERED TO GET IN THE TRENCHES BUT DON’T KNOW WHERE YOUR NETWORK’S LAIRS ARE. JW

Public Health England.  Sherlock did not suspect any foul play with the spread of the pneumonia among the compromised health of his homeless network but rather that the stress of their living and the unsanitary conditions under which some of them survived simply created a cesspool and breeding ground for health problems.  He imagined teams of health workers in hazmat suits, quarantine tenting, hospitals overwhelmed… and then what?  Once well enough to leave hospital, they would simply be dumped back onto the street.

Sherlock was actually very choosy about who was in his network.  Just because someone was homeless did not automatically make them candidates that he trusted. He allowed no alcoholics, no hard-core drug addicts, no liars, no minors.  In general he preferred to work with the newer homeless; ie., those who had lost homes due to unemployment, those who had fallen on hard times.  Not all his network lived on the streets.  Some lived in cheap rooms, cars, or moved about like nomads through London’s tight landscape.  It wasn’t as if his homeless network was all networked together.  The only time he had pulled them together as a team was when he jumped from Bart’s roof, and even that had been a risky venture despite Mycroft also having men on the ground in case something went wrong.

There weren’t actual “lairs” for his network, however.  That was a misconception that John had and that Mycroft also shared, but he did suspect there were abandoned buildings that were well known and frequented by many of London’s homeless, especially those who had been on the streets for a long time.  Even if he knew where they were, he wouldn’t risk exposing them.

By the time he arrived in Manchester, hotel reservations had indeed been made for him, and a cab was waiting for him outside the station.  He was taken immediately to the Hilton Manchester Deansgate, and local Scotland Yard was waiting for him, led by Detective Inspector Dimmock, someone he hadn’t seen for a long time.

“Detective Inspector.” Sherlock said.  “What’s it been?  Five years?”

“The Chinese circus and cipher case.  The case of the ‘Blind Banker’ as your colleague blogged it.  Where is he, by the way?  You still working together?”

“Of course we still work together, but I was sent up on the spur of the moment, and he’s married with a child, so he’s not really a spur of the moment type anymore.”

He realized what he had just said and wondered if he would also lose his ability to do things on the spur of the moment when he and Molly married.  Well, of course he would, he reasoned.  She understood the vagaries of his work.  He wasn’t like John where he had regular business hours.

“What brings you all the way up to Manchester?” Sherlock asked.  He didn’t really care, and he wasn’t trying to make small talk, but Dimmock was the last person he expected to find there, and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to working with him.

“I got transferred here two years ago.  Needed to get out of the big city.” He said.  He was still a man in his 30’s, but there were a few strands of gray in his short hair.  “My son likes his school better here.  He plays on the school’s football team.  He’s ten.  And my wife likes it better here.”

Dimmock had a son.  According to Sherlock’s mother’s assessment, that meant Dimmock needed to be toughened up.  Sherlock smirked a little.

Sherlock’s bags were sent up to his room, and he proceeded out of the hotel with Dimmock and two policemen. 

He was driven to the North Manchester General Hospital and escorted directly to the morgue.  Dimmock flashed his badge to the attendant registrar, and Dimmock led the way followed by the two policemen. 

The body of Jamie Paulson was laid out on the table under a sheet and waiting for them.  Before the morgue attendant pulled back the sheet, however, Dimmock gave Sherlock a few quick details.  “His hands were bound behind his back, and he was shot in the back of the head.  The face is pretty messed up from the bullet exit wound.”

“Shot execution style. Type of bullet?”

“Yeah, that’s where it gets interesting.  7N21.”

Sherlock turned to Dimmock and his brow furrowed.  “MP-443 Grach. Russian standard military side arm.”

“Yeah, we know.  Not exactly something you can go out and buy in this country, but they can be found wherever Russia has arms deals.  Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Syria, Egypt.  ISIS uses them in executions.  You get the picture.” 

Sherlock was slightly impressed. “You’ve come a long way Detective Inspector.”

“A long way from you calling me Dimwit.”

One of the officers snickered a bit.

“I never called you that.”

“Not to my face you didn’t.”

The two men stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Finally Sherlock took a deep breath, clapped his hands together and said, “Right then.  Let’s have a look at the body, shall we?”

The morgue attendant pulled back the sheet and the officer who had snickered fainted almost immediately at the sight.  The other officer turned and vomited in the nearest bin.  Sherlock groaned in annoyance rolled his eyes.  Dimmock grimaced but didn’t flinch.

The damage to the front of the face was gruesome and extensive, but Sherlock almost didn’t seem to notice. He pulled out his little magnifier and took a closer look at the damage, his brain sorting for clues as he looked at the bone, flesh and tissue fragments.  He asked to see the back of the head, and the body was rolled onto its side.  Bullet entry wound was clearly visible.  Sherlock could picture the angle of the head as the gun was fired.  And something else.  Fragments of fibers.  “Someone used a pillow to muffle the sound. Polyester fiber-fill.”

“There was no pillow with that damage at the crime scene.”

Sherlock did not look up from is magnifying glass.  “Odd the murderer would take it.” Definitely execution style.  Sherlock nodded and the body was rolled onto its back again. The head was covered and Sherlock went down to the feet.  The sheet was rolled back to the stomach and Sherlock examined the wrists for binding marks.  They were there, not from rope or cloth but from a zip tie. 

And then something caught his eye. “He’s circumcised.”

“Yeah?  So?”

“The scar is fresh.  Within the last six months.  Why would a grown man go through the pain of circumcision unless he was converting to Judaism or Islam?  I favor the latter.” His mind ran through several scenarios in a split second, and he gasped.  “Or pretending to.”

“You look at a dead man’s cock for a split second and you get all that?” Dimmock asked in disbelief. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You would if you had to prove your commitment.” Sherlock countered. “And you’re not circumcised.  More information than I needed, thank you.”  He squeezed his eyes together.  “Delete.”

“And you’re still a dick.” Dimmock said tersely.

“But you still go where I tell you to.” Sherlock said.

Dimmock sighed in resignation.  “Yes.  Yes, I do.”

“Good.  Then take me to where the body was found, but leave the juniors behind.  They’re useless.”

Paulson’s flat was not too far away on Tweedle Hill Road.  The entrance was still blocked with police tape and had a police guard out front.  Dimmock flashed his badge and the guard nodded in acknowledgement, and Sherlock followed him into the flat.  Dim mock turned on the light. “Don’t move anything, and try not to touch anything.” Dimmock said sharply.

“Perhaps you’d prefer if I levitated.” Sherlock responded. 

The evidence of where the crime happened was directly in the middle of the front room.  A ghastly splatter of blood, brain, tissue and fragments of bone. It had a lovely little yellow flag next to it as if it were possible to miss it as evidence.  Other little yellow flags dotted the room. 

Aside from the police paraphernalia, the flat was fairly tidy.  If Paulson’s son had stolen the information from his father’s house, it had possibly already been passed on or had been given up under duress.  In either case, the flat had not been ransacked as if someone was trying to find something.

“Girlfriend lived with him?” Sherlock asked.

“And she’s missing.”

Sherlock bounded up the stairs to the second level and into the main bedroom.  He pulled open drawers, opened the closets, looked under the bed.  He went into the adjoining bathroom and checked the contents of the cabinets.  What could he find that Scotland Yard had missed?  They had, of course, already surmised that she might not have committed the crime as there was no attempt to gather her things and flee.  All her items were still there as if she had simply gone to work in the morning and not come home again.  The top drawer of a small desk revealed both passports. Although he had never seen a picture of her, he quickly surmised by the hair on her hairbrush that she was a blonde with fairly long hair, but he also surmised from the blond hair colorant in the cabinet that she might not be a natural blond.  A picture of the couple on the bedside table showed them on a ski trip in the Alps, but he didn’t consider it a clue.  Except that she was a brunette in the picture. 

Dimmock came around him and looked at the picture.  “Look happy, don’t they?”

“Are you considering her a suspect?” Sherlock asked.

“I’d say a person of interest.” Dimmock replied.

“That’s diplomatic.” Sherlock said.  “Did you find his cell phone?”

“We’ve got it down at the station.  The team is looking to see if he’s got a tracking app for her phone to see where she is.”

“There are other ways of tracking her phone if he didn’t install an app.”

“Yeah, well we have a lot to do on this case.  Fishing her car out of the River Mersey, searching for a body, even though I think she wants people to think she’s dead.”

“And why do you say that, Detective Inspector?”

“Because whoever did that to her boyfriend might try to do that to her.”

Sherlock was pleased with Dimmock's assessment. “Really, you have come a long way.  Lestrade would be so proud. Did you find any unusual papers?  Diplomatic papers?”

“I am not sure my boys found anything like that.”

“Then they were either taken or are still here.  If they were taken, he either retrieved them for his killer before he was shot or they were laying out in the open.  Otherwise the place would have been ransacked.”

Nevertheless Sherlock searched the flat for a diplomatic courier, and this took him the better part of an hour.  He was about to give up until he opened the freezer and began to rummage through the stock of boxed frozen goods.  And then he found it.  A packet.  So, he wasn’t the only one to use the freezer trick.  He quietly tucked it into his coat.

He yawned and checked his watch.  It was nearly 0200 hours, and he was exhausted.  “I have kept you away from your family.” He said.

“When Sherlock Holmes comes to town, my wife understands my priorities.” Dimmock replied.

“Well, thank her for being understanding, and I think I’d like to retire to my hotel now.” Sherlock said.

Dimmock drove Sherlock back to his hotel and Sherlock immediately went up to the concierge.  “Do any of your restaurants provide room service at this time of night?”

“I’m sorry, sir.  All the restaurants closed a few hours ago, but the Podium Restaurant will be open for breakfast at 6:30 A.M. That’s only a few hours from now.” He smiled diplomatically, but Sherlock did not.

“Vending machine?  Anything?”

“I believe your room has a fully stocked snack bar, Mr. Holmes.”

“Was that so difficult?” Sherlock asked as he walked off towards the elevator. 

Although he explored the contents of the snack bar, he found the choices mildly disappointing and forced himself to settle on a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.  He had no clean laundry which meant that in the morning he would take a shower and put back on clothes he’d already spent the day in which he found a bit repulsive.  Normally Mrs. Hudson took care of his washables and the rest was sent out for dry cleaning.  He didn’t have time for any of that worry now, however.  It had been an exhausting day of finishing his long weekend with Molly, a long drive home only to be put onto a train, then the morgue and the crime scene.  His head was still spinning a bit from the whiplash of events.

He barely had the energy to brush his teeth, but then he stripped down and crawled into bed.  He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

When he awoke in the morning, he immediately texted Mycroft. 

NO CLEAN CLOTHES.  HAVE MY SIZES SENT UP ASAP. NOT LEAVING ROOM UNTIL THEY ARRIVE.  SH

SUCH A DIVA SOMETIMES. CLOTHES ON THEIR WAY. MH

He could have his dirty clothes laundered by the hotel’s services, but that might take too long, and while he waited for Mycroft to make the necessary arrangements, he donned a white hotel dressing gown and ordered room service.  It was snowing and bitterly cold outside, and he stood at the window and watched the traffic below as he sipped a cup of tea. 

He texted Molly.

FEELING BETTER TODAY? SH

WILL TAKE A FEW DAYS TO RECOVER.  HOW LONG WILL YOU BE GONE?  MH

NOT SURE. IS IT SNOWING IN LONDON?  TERRIBLE STORM HERE. SH

HASN’T STARTED YET.  SPOKE TOO SOON.  I SEE SNOW FLAKES.  MH

EVER BEEN SKIING IN THE ALPS?  SH

I DON’T SKI.  MH

I’LL TAKE YOU SOMETIME.  SH

He missed her already and “missing” was a sentiment he rarely indulged in with people simply because he preferred to stay emotionally detached.  He missed his violin, he missed flat, he missed his microscope, and he missed his own bed, but that was because he was inclined to be sentimental towards his possessions.  But he missed Molly.  He knew he didn’t deserve her, but he was terribly glad he had her.  He was still reeling a bit from the mind-blowing way she had made love to him two days prior.  No drugs had ever given him that kind of high.  The only other time he could compare it to was their first time together when it had all been fresh and new.  Whereas he could put his hand on his hip and not feel any particular sensation, her hand on his hip was electrifying.

He still marveled that he had let his guard down long enough to allow her into his inner life.  She had been so persistent.  He generally never lost an argument, but he had lost the discussion with her that night after she had removed his microchip. He had tried so hard to put her off, but she continued to come back with counterpoints until he had no arguments left.  She had been fearless then.  She had been fearless when she had slapped him for his drug use.  She had been fearless in calling him out for his awful behavior at the Christmas party a few years before.  He hadn’t seen it before that she had always been fearless with him.  Not over-confident like Irene Adler.  Molly had a quiet strength, and he had never appreciated it so much as he had the past weekend.

Two sets of new clothes arrived by 1300 hours including a 6-pack of black underwear and a 6-pack of black socks, and Sherlock sent out his other clothing to be cleaned.  He didn’t know how long he would be in Manchester, but he doubted he would go through all the clothes once they were cleaned before he returned to Baker Street. 

Dimmock picked up Sherlock at the hotel and they drove to the little town of Kearsley just north of Manchester.  There was a light dusting of snow everywhere, and the temperature was quite bitter.  Sherlock kept his collar turned up and fluffed his wool scarf a little create pockets of warmth, but his ears were cold, and he was sniffling every time they were outside.  They drove to Kearsley to meet up with the girlfriend’s mother, Jeanne Oakley.  For a beautiful woman who could have passed for an older sister to the daughter, she look haggard, exhausted, and as if she’d been crying for two days.  Nevertheless she made tea for them.

“Have you news on my Lizzie?” she said. 

“No,” Dimmock said.  “But we’re working on it.  That’s why we’ve got Sherlock Holmes on the case.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you, Mr. Holmes.  You have quite the reputation for solving the unsolvable.”

“I think I’ll put that on my next batch of business cards.” Sherlock mused.  “And please, call me Sherlock.  My father is Mr. Holmes.”

She started to pour tea for him, but her hands were shaking.  “I'll be mother.” Sherlock offered, and he poured the tea for the three of them. 

 _House is spotless, nails manicured.  She has a housekeeper._    _Decorative antiques in the cabinets either means she is a collector or dealer but probably a collector as they are too specific.  House looks recently remodeled_.   _Too pristine.  Money from somewhere.  Framed law certificate on the wall._    _She was a barrister, but doesn’t practice anymore.  Favors…favors…_  Sherlock squinted as the information flooded his brain.   _She favors…_  a Pembroke corgi female sauntered into the room and immediately chose to investigate Sherlock and Dimmock. The dog was nursing pups somewhere.   _She favors dog breeding._ Useless information.  She wasn’t a suspect in his mind but the information flooded in regardless.

“Where are the puppies?” Sherlock asked. He was suddenly completely distracted.

“In the back room.  Would you like me to bring one out?”

“Please.” Sherlock said.

She immediately got up and left the room.  Dimmock frowned at Sherlock.  “What do puppies have to do with the case?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Sherlock shrugged. “I just have a soft spot for them.”

“I didn’t think you had soft spots.”

“You’d be surprised.” Sherlock said, and he immediately brightened like a young boy when she brought out the six-week old corgi puppy.  She handed it to him and he held it up, then smelled it.  The puppy licked his face.  “Puppy breath.  Nothing like it.” He petted it a little, smiled, then handed the puppy back to her, and she kept it in her lap.

“I’m so afraid something awful has happened to her. Please, please find her.” She said, and she immediately started crying.

“All of her things were intact except for her purse, so I assume she was out at the time of the murder.” Sherlock said.  “It’s very likely she’s hiding in fear of her life.  The question now is, where would she hide that she would feel is completely safe?”

“I don’t know.” Jeanne said.  “She has lots of friends at uni.  She was very popular.  Everyone adored her.”

“May I see your cell phone?” Sherlock asked.

Jeanne handed him her cell phone and he scrolled through her apps.  Damn.  There were no tracking apps on her phone, but he did retrieve her daughter’s number and entered it into his own phone without her noticing.

As they walked back to Dimmock's car, he turned to Sherlock and asked, “What was all that with the dog?”

“As I said, I like puppies, and it put her at ease.”Sherlock said simply. 

As soon as Dimmock and Sherlock were back in the car, Sherlock turned on a phone app.

“What the hell app is that?” Dimmock asked.

“Government issue only.  It will find her phone via GPS.  I can turn her phone on remotely even if she has it powered down, and I can turn on her camera and see where she is and also listen to any conversation.” Sherlock said.

Dimmock swore under his breath.   He didn’t like the idea that the government could spy on its citizens so easily, but he couldn’t deny that the app was useful for the case.  “So the app doesn’t also have to be on her phone?”

“Nope.” Sherlock said popping his P. “Oh don’t look at me like that, Detective Inspector.  It’s not like I invented it, but it does prove useful from time to time.”

“Sort of takes spying to a whole new level.”  Dimmock said grimly.

“If you’ve nothing to hide, then I’m sure you’ve nothing to worry about.” Sherlock said, and then he rolled his eyes.  “If you’re really concerned, there is an app that will alert you to being remotely accessed, and it will put up an image declaring that you know you’re being hacked and it will shut down the other functions until the hacking stops.  I have a team who developed it, and it’s quite effective.”

The screen on Sherlock’s phone suddenly lit up, having remotely accessed Lizzie’s phone. “Can she see or hear us?” Dimmock asked very quietly.

“Not a thing.” Sherlock insisted.

They only had a view of white, however, and Sherlock reasoned that the phone was on a table and the camera was facing the ceiling.  They could hear shuffling around but couldn’t see anything. 

Sherlock accessed a drop-down menu from the app, and after a few seconds a map appeared with a pulsing dot.  “Blackpool. Off we go then.”

It took just over an hour to arrive in Blackpool.  Sherlock hadn’t left the app open the entire trip as it would have drained his battery down.  On the way Dimmock shook his head in disbelief.

“All this time I thought you just used your brains to figure things out, but a little app just gave you the answer.”

Sherlock frowned.  “I use technology to help me all the time, as does your forensics team.”

“We don’t have secret government technology.” Dimmock said. “That’s cheating.”

Sherlock looked him over carefully. “I see you haven’t taken your dog to the groomer in at least three months, sheepdog by the hairs on your coat.  And that cologne you’re wearing.  You don’t like it but you wear it because your wife bought it for you as a gift after a particularly nasty argument over her purchasing an expensive dress out of your holiday funds.  I advise you discontinue its use.  You smell like a barn.  And you haven’t eaten today by the growling of your stomach which is annoying, and by your fidgeting I know you need to urinate.  You should have done it at the Oakley residence.  Am I correct on everything or have I cheated?”

Dimmock sighed. “Damn it.”

Sherlock grinned in self-satisfaction. “I thought so.”

The GPS led them to Preston Old Road and a series of mostly red brick homes with duplexes on one side of the street and single family dwellings on the other, but they did not pull up directly in front of the house.  Instead they cruised down several houses, and Dimmock pulled over and parked.  “Has the phone moved?” Dimmock asked.

“Not at all.”  Sherlock said.

The two men exited the car, but Sherlock hug back a little and allowed Dimmock to approach the front door and knock. Sherlock saw a slight movement in the curtains of the upstairs window.  He didn’t know if he was seen, but moments later he heard the click of the back door, and he caught a glimpse of a blond woman running towards the back fence.  He cursed and took off after her, struggling over the front gate and tumbling to the ground somewhat awkwardly on the other side.  He ran across the back yard, but she had already scaled the wall and disappeared into the yard on the other side.   “Lizzie, stop!” he yelled as he scrambled over the back wall and into the yard of the other house.  It was easy to follow her footsteps as she left tracks in the light snow.  He had to scale another wall by the bins, and suddenly he was down the side of the house and out onto Patterdale Avenue where she could clearly be seen running down the street.  He continued chase, closing in on her with his quick, long strides.  He reached out for her, missing by inches, then grabbed for her again. They took a tumble onto the small patch of front yard of a house.  Even then she was fighting to get away.  “Lizzie!  Stop!  Stop!” He pinned her down on her back, his own body weight holding her down.  “I’m here to help you! Stop.”

Immediately her eyes flooded with tears. “They’ll kill me.  They will.  You have to let me go.”

“No, you’re safe now.  I’ve got you and nothing’s going to happen to you.  It’s all right now.  It’s all right.” He gently patted her cheek.  Both were completely out of breath.  He sat back, then helped her to her feet and pulled her into a tight embrace just as Dimmock ran up breathlessly.

Sherlock and Dimmock returned to Manchester with Lizzie where she was taken to the local Scotland Yard building and into an interrogation room. 

Sherlock and Dimmock sat across the table from her.  “How did you find me?” she asked.  “I was so careful.”

Dimmock started to say something but Sherlock held up his hand.  “I’m Sherlock Holmes.  I can find anyone.” He said simply.

“If you can find me, they can find me.” She said fearfully, and the tears began to flow again. 

Sherlock scooted a box of tissues towards her across the steel table. “Highly unlikely.  Not unless you do something stupid that alerts them to your whereabouts, but you’re not going to anything stupid, are you?  One execution-style killing per year is about my quota.  Don’t exceed it for me.”

Dimmock leaned forward.  “Who killed Jamie Paulson?”

“I don’t know exactly,” she said.  “Jamie got involved with a group on campus.  His father wanted him to infiltrate the group.  They were all Iraqi. He grew out all his facial hair, learned Arabic, read the Quran, attended the local Mosque.  He even got circumcised.  Everyone thought he was an Iraqi national.”

“Why would he do that?” Dimmock asked.

“To help his father.” She said.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes.  “Moving on.”

“Mr. Paulson was wounded in action in Iraq and many of his troops were killed.  The leaders of the attack have sent their sons to Manchester to study.  Jamie became part of the group, but they were suspicious of him.  He had to prove his loyalty.  His father arranged a dinner meeting at his home with the Turkish Ambassador on the night he was to fly back to Turkey, and his father arranged for Jamie to steal the documents for collateral.  Something went wrong somewhere.  That’s all I know.  And if they find me, they will kill me the same way they killed him or they will cut my head off.”

“What do you think Mr. Paulson’s goal was?” Sherlock asked, but he already had a firm idea.

“I don’t know.” She said.  “I don’t.  Jamie didn’t talk about the details.  I think he was trying to protect me as best he could.”  She broke down into tears and could not speak again for a few minutes.  When she finally regained a little composure she said, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  We were supposed to get married.  We have a baby coming.  Now I don’t know if there’s any place safe for me on this earth.”

“Well, you’re going to be in police custody for a good while, so I wouldn’t worry about that,” Dimmock said simply.

Sherlock stood up suddenly with another sigh.  “We’re done here.”  He walked out of the room with Dimmock not far behind, and once outside of the soundproof room, he said, “Arrest her.  The rest of this a case for MI5, and that’s not my specialty.”

“This is going to be a nightmare.” Dimmock said.

Sherlock winked at him and patted him on the back.  “Just like to keep things interesting for you, Detective Inspector.”

“I do get to London once in a while.” Dimmock said.  “Perhaps we could meet for a pint?”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock asked, and he walked away.  Dimmock simply watched him leave in silence.

Sherlock returned to his hotel room, and he immediately texted Mycroft.

I HAVE THE ORIGINAL DOCUMENTS. SH

GOOD. MH

IS PAULSON SQUEALING YET? SH

HE HASN’T STOPPED.  MI5 CONVERGING ON MANCHESTER AS WE SPEAK. MH

AM I OFF THE CASE THEN? SH

SUBMIT YOUR REPORT AND IT WILL BE FINISHED.  MH

There was a pause in the texting before Mycroft spoke again.

YOU WERE WRONG ABOUT ONE OF THEM DEFECTING.  THE TURKISH AMBASSADOR IS COMPLETELY INNOCENT.  IS THIS GOING TO BE A HABIT?  BEING WRONG?  MH

Sherlock started to say something but quickly wondered what the point was of arguing.  Mycroft was right.  He had been wrong about that aspect of it.  It was rare, but it happened.  He wasn’t certain if he could have prevented Jamie Paulson’s death if he had acted sooner, but he wondered if he wasn’t partly to blame.

SORRY, MYCROFT.  I SPOKE TOO SOON. SH

As soon as Sherlock filed his report and it was approved by Mycroft, Mycroft would then approve the disbursement of payment for Sherlock.  It would be a tidy sum, perhaps even more than he suspected due to the nature of national security that it presented.  Even so, Paulson’s true case would likely never come to light.  He would spend the remainder of his days in prison, MI5 would root out the terror cell, and the incident would largely be swept clean by the government so as not to alarm the British public.

Sherlock changed into the hotel robe, ordered room service and enjoyed a few moments of peace.  Christmas was coming soon.  The street below him was already decorated, and he liked looking at the lights in the darkness.  He usually sent his parents and assortment of treats as well as a gift certificate to their local grocer.  Mycroft also always received an assortment of treats, and although he always complained about their fattening content, he nevertheless ate them all.  This year he would send something for Anichka and Ionna although he didn’t know what.  He would ask his mother what they needed or wanted.  And then there was his brother and niece.  He wasn’t certain if he should send them anything at all, but he thought maybe he would.  And then there was Molly.  He had an idea for her but he would need John’s help to accomplish it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: to be fair, this story overall does touch on human trafficking, child pornography and the sex slave trade, and this chapter has some of that in more detail.
> 
> Rest assured, however, I would NEVER write any scenes involving sex with a child. That it happens and is part of an ongoing criminal investigation, however, does come up in this chapter.

On the day that Sherlock returned to London from Manchester, the newspaper headlines were all about the body of an approximately 12-year-old boy found in the Thames near the Westminster Bridge.  There was no sign of foul play on the body of the child who seemed perhaps of Indian or Middle Eastern descent, but there were no reports of a child missing that fit the description. Even an artist’s sketch of the boy’s face failed to bring anyone forward.

Two days later another body, this time of a young woman estimated to be in her late teens was also found in the Thames about five miles further up the river.  Again there were no signs of trauma or foul play, and no one could identify her. 

The body of the boy was taken to Barts and the woman was taken to another morgue.  Molly performed the autopsy on the boy.  Drowning was not the cause of death, but as she opened up the lungs, she didn’t need to be told precisely what the issue was.  She could see it with her own well-trained eyes.  The boy had pneumonia.  She had just never seen a case so bad.  She immediately asked her assistant to take a sample of the lung tissue for identification.  She had heard about the virulent strain of pneumonia that was in London, and she wondered if this case was connected.  Fearing the worst, she immediately had the morgue quarantined.  She didn’t know if she should also be quarantined.  Despite always wearing protective gear during an autopsy, she never believed it was enough.  She had had her flu shot, but this particular strain wasn’t covered.  To make matters worse, she discovered a small nick in her glove.  She quickly snapped off her gloves and dropped them into the medical waste bin, and she checked her finger.  There was a small cut.  She hadn’t felt it at all but now she would have to file a report.  She immediately began scrubbing her hands as if she were going into surgery. Then she scrubbed them again until they were red and almost raw.  Of all the times to get a nick, this was one of the worst.

She immediately reported her situation to her supervisors, but the general consensus was that she was likely okay but that they would take preventative measures.  She was sent home and told to let them know if she began to experience any flu-like symptoms or if her temperature rose more than two degrees.  She was to take her temperature every two hours and send in a report.  If after three days she had no symptoms, she could return to work.

Blood samples on both victims, however, revealed a startling and frightening connection.  Both had died of the same virulent strain of pneumonia that Bill Wiggins had.  There was no obvious connection between them and Bill, however.

Molly texted Sherlock that she had been sent home for three days, and he was at her door within the hour.  “I’m not sure I should let you in.” she said through the barely open door. “I could have it.”

“I’m sure you’re fine, and I’ll be fine.  Let me in, Molly.”

She hesitated, then stood back and opened the door wider.  He stepped into her flat and shut the door behind him.  He quickly pulled her forehead to his lips to test her temperature.  “You’re not even warm.”

“It’s just a precaution, that’s all.” She insisted. “But you shouldn’t be around it at all.  You’ve already had pneumonia once this year.”

“Well then, I should have a fairly good supply of antibodies.” He insisted.  “And I’ve had my flu shot.  What was your last temperature reading?”

“98.6.  Normal.” She said.  “Now go.  If anything changes, I will let you know.  But if anything does change, the PHE will come to get me and I’ll be in quarantine.”

He rolled his eyes and swore.  “It’s not the black plague! Idiots!”  He pulled her to him and tried to kiss her but she turned her head away. He held her head in his hands and kissed her lips anyhow.  “You are not sick, Molly Hooper.  You are not.  You will be fine.”  He kissed her again just for good measure and gave her pyjama-clad bottom a gentle pat.  She immediately winced and pushed his hand away.

“They gave me a preemptive antibiotic.” She said.  “Burned like hell going in.”

“Sorry. Shall I kiss it and make it better?” He winked at her.

“Don’t be cheeky.” She said, and then they both realized what she had said and giggled.  “Now go. I have three days off where I can get a lot done on my presentation for the RSM.  I’ll call you if I so much as cough.”  She pulled him down to her, their lips so close together. “Find out where these bodies are coming from, Sherlock Holmes.” She kissed him quickly and then turned him towards the door.

“I’ll be back to check on you later.” He insisted, and left as quickly as he had arrived.  She wouldn’t see him again for the rest of the day, but he had take-away from her favorite Thai restaurant sent to her flat.

Sherlock immediately went to Barts to visit Bill Wiggins.  Bill looked considerably paler and thinner, but he was breathing easier although he wore a nasal canula.  Sherlock pulled up a chair, removed his gloves and laid them in his lap. “You’re not planning on spending Christmas here, are you?”

Bill rolled his eyes.  He didn’t speak.  Breathing was difficult enough, and he barely had that under control.

“Bill, there’s a facility I want you to go to when you’re deemed ready for release.  No arguing.  You’ll have a roof over your head, good food, and the treatment you need to kick your habit.  It’s a place I went to earlier this year after I had a little relapse one night.”

Bill blinked in disbelief at Sherlock, then rubbed his fingers together indicating money.

“I have a special fund that I set up to help anyone in the network who really and truly wants to change their life, so my rule is that you have to be willing to change or you’re wasting the funds that could help someone else, and that wouldn’t be fair would it?”

Bill took a deep breath as his eyes filled with tears. The moment he blinked the tears rushed down the sides of his face towards his ears.

“You’re my number one source, Billy.  I depend on you, but if you want to want to stay number one, I need you to be clean and sober.  No more dealing, no more drugs at all.  While you’re in treatment I have contacts who will help you get set up with permanent housing. Maybe go back to university and finish your degree or get some job training. You have a rare and brilliant mind that needs to be honed. You can’t spend another winter outside.  It will kill you.”

Bill took another deep breath, and there were more tears.  He was clearly overwhelmed, but in what direction Sherlock was a little unsure.  He drew an imaginary line between himself and Sherlock.

“I know you want to keep working for me, and that’s possible but first things first.  You get cleaned up.”

Bill wiped back his tears but more followed.  He was too physically weak to keep his emotions in check.

“Billy, your strain of pneumonia is new to England.  Tell me where you’ve been or who you’ve been with that you might have picked it up.  You said yourself that two in the network had already died from it.  Is there some place you go? Are there some lairs that I don’t know about where disease can spread?”

Bill looked away.  He had his secrets, and he wasn’t willing to share them.

“Billy, are you afraid of exposing a secret lair?  What’s in that lair?  Drugs?  Tell me.” Sherlock urged him.

“No drugs.” Bill barely whispered.  He reached for a pad of paper and a pen, but he was so weak that he knocked them to the floor.  Sherlock immediately retrieved them and put them in Bill’s hands. Bill wrote two words:

ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS

Sherlock sat back and processed the information.  Could it be that the two bodies found in the Thames were illegal immigrants who had somehow come down with pneumonia?  But why were their bodies dumped so unceremoniously? 

“Billy, people are dying, and if this strain gets out, a lot more people could die.  You need to tell me where they are before a lot more people die. You know where they are, don’t you?  Please, Billy.  Tell me.”

Bill began to write on the paper.  He then ripped the top sheet off the pad and handed it to Sherlock.  Sherlock looked at it.  Two addresses.

Sherlock immediately texted John when he left Bill’s room.

MEET ME AT 221B BAKER STREET. BRING A FULLY STOCKED MED KIT AND PROTECTIVE GEAR. NO PHE UNTIL WE HAVE ASSESSED THE SITUATION.  SH

John arrived at 221B with a large medical kit that was the size of a small suitcase, and he bounded up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat.  “Right then.  So whatever it is we’re doing, I’ll need you to assist. Play nurse. Where are we off to?”

“It may be a dead end, John, and when I say dead…”

“You mean dead.” John said simply. “Do you have a protective mask?”

Sherlock pulled out a handful of surgical masks from his coat pocket and quickly waved them before stuffing them out of sight again.  “Nicked them from Molly.”

“That kind will only be good for twenty minutes or so.  You nicked the wrong kind. So why aren’t we calling in the PHE?”

“I’m not leading them on a wild goose chase, John.  I need to have something solid.  Then we’ll call in the reinforcements.”

“Is this for an actual case?”

“Of sorts.” Sherlock said as he began to head down the stairs, and John immediately followed him.

Sherlock hailed a cab just outside of 221B Baker Street and John and Sherlock climbed into the back seat.  As the cab began to drive away John said, “Thanks for the payment on the Ambassador case although I didn’t do much.  You solved that one.”

“Nonsense, John.  Your help was invaluable on that day we visited the MP’s house.” 

“So why are we chasing down dead bodies when we’re not being paid to?”

“Instinct.” Sherlock said simply. “Somehow there’s a connection to the girls.”

“The girls we rescued? Do they have the pneumonia?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

John still wasn’t making the connection, but that’s how it often was with Sherlock: Sherlock instantly saw the bits and pieces and how they fit together or could fit together.  He saw the fine details while John saw the broad brush strokes.

“You think there’s an illegal immigration connection? Surely illegals are coming in through every port in Britain.” John insisted.

“I think there’s some thread I’m missing about their case, and I think we may find it. Are you carrying protection?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m carrying a med kit, Sherlock. I’m a doctor.”

“Is your gun in the kit?”

“Yes.” John admitted grimly.  “But there will be no shootings today, and you are not to handle it.  I promised Mycroft that I would keep it out of your reach after that bit with Magnussen.”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

The cab pulled up to an abandoned warehouse, and Sherlock paid the cabbie and told him there was no need to wait, even though he and John were quite in the middle of nowhere and nothing.

The warehouse was situated about a half mile inland from St. Clement’s Church in West Thurrock.    It was not an area known to either John or Sherlock.  Even though Sherlock liked to think he knew the infrastructure of every town and city along the Thames he did not.  With two shipping docks close by, it was an easy port for transporting human cargo.  On rare occasion trafficked humans could be found in actual cargo containers.  How some remained undetected was always a mystery, and yet immigrants did get through and past security.  Whatever their entry point, however, they were shuffled through the country by various means of transportation.

“Why would Billy know about this place?” John asked.  “It’s a bit out of his territory, isn’t it?”

But Sherlock ignored John’s question as he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply and slowly, filtering the smells that came into his brain like a bloodhound.  When he opened his eyes he looked at John.  “Can you smell it?”

“Smell what?”

“Death.” Sherlock said simply.

John wrinkled his nose and sniffed, but he couldn’t smell anything.  Sherlock was already beginning to canvas the building in long, purposeful strides, his Belstaff furling behind him, his breath hanging in the frosty air in little puffs, and John hurried to catch up with him.

All the doors were locked, and some were chained from the outside, but one door, although locked, had the gears taped into the open position.  Even so, it took a bit of shoulder power to force it open as something was apparently blocking it on the other side.  Immediately when the door was open only a crack, John got a whiff of what Sherlock had mentioned earlier.  “Put your mask on now.” John said, and both quickly donned surgical masks before entering the building. 

Even though the door had been forced open, they had to squeeze in as they couldn’t open it fully.  Diffused, pale light filtered in from painted over windows above in the cavernous warehouse.  Whereas Sherlock expected it to be cold inside, it was neither warm nor cold but somewhere in between as if the electric or gas heat had been left on  just enough to keep the temperature reasonable.  The warehouse contained rows of old empty shelving that were bolted to the floors.  There was an odd metallic scent in the air or rusting metal along with the unpleasant odor death.  Sherlock pulled out his flashlight and aimed at the floor.  Rat droppings.  A movement caught the corner of his eye as a rat scurried away from his flashlight beam.  John saw it too and swore silently.  He hated rats.

It seemed empty, but the footprints in the dust on the floor revealed multiple people had been there and recently.  Small footprints mixed in the adult prints indicated families.  Families housed there but for how long?  And how many?  And there was still the stifling, nauseating odor of decaying flesh coming from somewhere. 

Eloquent dust.  Sherlock bent down and drew a line in what he considered the most recent print.  The dust in the newest print was perhaps a week old.  The footprints were in all directions.  Were they warehoused here?

Another movement and Sherlock’s flashlight locked onto another rat.  The rat stopped for a moment but seemed unconcerned by Sherlock’s light before continuing on its journey. “This way, John.” Sherlock said quietly  as he began to follow the rat.  The smell of death was so strong now it was burning their eyes, and John winced.

They heard the sound before they found what they were looking for.  It was the sound of thousands of flies. There were maggots crawling on the floor.  Hundreds of them.  A bundle of what seemed like blankets was against one wall.  Sherlock wished he had a cane or long stick, something.  The top blanket was moving ever so slightly.  The smell was overpowering.  Sherlock gently tapped the blanket with the toe of his shoe, and the entire blanket shuddered.  Rats scurried out, and John shouted in alarm and jumped back while trying to avoid the maggots on the floor.  Sherlock gingerly lifted up the blanket to reveal the putrid, rotting remains of not one but two corpses, both filled with writhing maggots as rats feasted on what they could. 

John, a hardened soldier who had seen all sorts of horrors on the battle field and in the operating theater, had had enough.  He hated maggots, flies and rats, and he was sure maggots were now crawling on him.

Sherlock didn’t have to inspect closer, and the flies were too concentrated to give him good access.  They were like a swarming black cloud around the bodies. 

John turned and was about to run out of the building, but he realized they weren’t alone.  A security guard had his gun pointed at him and Sherlock, although he was wincing at the stench as well with one arm covering his mouth and nose.  “Don’t move! What are you doing in here?”

Sherlock turned and faced him calmly. “Did you know it’s a crime to improperly dispose of a body?”

“What?” the guard was clearly confused.

“And do you have a licence to carry that weapon?  Security guards don’t normal carry firearms.  Even our police don’t carry firearms.  Now, why don’t you lower that weapon while I call Scotland Yard in to take a look at what’s going on in here?”

“What is that smell?” he asked. “It’s like someone’s cat died in here.”

“That’s two humans, I’m afraid.” Sherlock said. “Now, lower your weapon, and let’s all go into the fresh air outside and talk about this calmly.”  Even Sherlock’s stomach was beginning to lurch a little.

John couldn’t stand still anymore, and he frantically brushed off his trousers and arms.  Even if he didn’t have maggots on him, his brain was telling him that he did.  Even the guard couldn’t take it and immediately bolted for the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed deeply.  “Idiot.”

Sherlock and John emerged from the warehouse like two men who had been underwater for too long.  They gasped and gulped for fresh air.  The guard was already vomiting nearby, and John also turned and vomited.  Sherlock sighed, again rolling his eyes, but then he suddenly pulled down his mask and also vomited.

Scotland Yard arrived with the local police within a half hour, but it wasn’t the Yard that Sherlock knew.  He would have given anything to have Lestrade or Dimmock there at that moment.  These detectives seemed slightly put out that Sherlock was on their territory.  Of course they’d heard of him and John Watson, but Sherlock also had a reputation within the Yard for causing lots of new paperwork and uncovering new bodies.  It wasn’t important that he often solved cases.  They respected him, but he added to their workload. 

“What exactly were you doing here in the first place?” Detective Inspector Swingle demanded.

“Searching for bodies, which we apparently found.” Sherlock said simply. 

“And I’m supposed to believe that you came all the way out here to West Thurrock to look for bodies?” Swingle said.  He was clearly unimpressed.

John pulled out his doctor badge from the clinic and then his temporary certification with PHE.   “We’re looking for the source of a pneumonia strain that has come into Britain and is killing its citizens, and because it’s a matter of public health and safety, PHE trumps Scotland Yard and any local police force.” John didn’t know if that was actually true, but it sounded true.  John and Swingle stared each other down for several moments, neither willing to back off. Finally Sherlock broke their stale-mate. 

“I would estimate from the rate of decay that the bodies have been there for one to two weeks at least, and we have it on good authority that this warehouse processes illegally trafficked humans.  Apparently those two in there didn’t quite make it, poor sods.” Sherlock said.

“Do not go in.  Do not touch them.” John said.  “The strain of pneumonia is quite deadly, and we don’t know what killed those two.”  He scratched his neck.  He still felt like things were crawling on him.

“You went in.” Swingle nearly glowered at them.

“A simple thank you would suffice.” Sherlock said.

“A thank you?  What for?”

“For exposing a problem in your jurisdiction so that it can be taken care of.  Ah.  Here come our reinforcements.” They all turned to look while Sherlock casually plucked a maggot off of John’s back and flicked it away without John noticing.

A large PHE vehicle pulled up then along with a coroner’s vehicle as well as a new cab for Sherlock and John. 

“And now, Detective Inspector, perhaps you will research who is paying the heating bill for an abandoned warehouse.  I daresay that with the cold weather we’ve had recently, the two bodies wouldn’t be in nearly such a rapid state of decay, nor would there be such a pestilence of flies and maggots. Flies, you will recall from basic biology, are cold blooded.”

“I’ve heard you were an arrogant bastard.” Swingle huffed.

“Yes, and I can tell that you’ve had laser surgery on your eyes, but they made both eyes nearsighted.  That’s why you keep squinting, but you won’t wear bifocals because you think they make you look old, and that would diminish your standing at the Yard.  You think this is a young man’s game and you’re up to the challenge.” Sherlock leaned forward slightly.  “The game is older than both of us combined.  The game will never be over.  It will outlive you.  But you can block this one port of entry and maybe save lives in the future.”

Sherlock and John headed for the cab while Swingle was approached by the PHE and coroner.  This was not going to be a pleasant task for him.

“The great Sherlock Holmes now wants to _save_ lives?” Swingle called after him.

Sherlock turned his head .  “I would always prefer to find someone living, Detective Inspector, but when they’re not, then that’s where you need me the most.  Good day, gentlemen.”

As the cab pulled away with John and Sherlock in the back, John turned to Sherlock.  “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?” Sherlock asked, but he knew already what John was hinting to.

“That little deduction game where you bury your opponent with your superior powers of observation just to prove you’re cleverer.”

“I am.” Sherlock shrugged.

“What I’m saying is, stop letting them get to you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Are you done lecturing?

“I’m sure you’ve already deleted it anyhow.” John sighed in resignation.

They sat together in silence for a moment as Sherlock fought for words.  Finally he said almost bitterly, “Sorry.  Sorry John.  It’s a bad habit.  But at least I didn’t point out that his wife was having an affair with the dog groomer.”

“You cock.” John shook his head in disbelief.  Some things never changed.

They arrived at their second Bill Wiggins destination about three miles up the Thames west of the Westminster Bridge.  As the first location had proven to be a true dead end, Sherlock hoped there would be something better to go on in the next location, and he also hoped that he wouldn’t have to deal with another over-eager security guard brandishing a weapon. 

He assumed that Bill knew about potential points of entry for illegal immigrants since many of them ended up homeless on the streets of London, especially if they were trafficked in either as slaves under the guise of domestic help.  Some of the women ended up as prostitutes or sex slaves.  They could be found on certain streets of London that any Londoner knew.  It wouldn’t have surprised Sherlock if Bill had availed himself of their services from time to time.

The puzzle of exactly how Ionna and Anichka were trafficked into Britain continued to elude him.  They had caught the mother’s killer in the Ukraine, but the girls had been kidnapped from their school.  Even the girls weren’t entirely certain how it had all transpired mainly because they were kept drugged during their transportation.  It kept them quiet.  It kept their memories muddled at best.  It kept their defenses down making them more pliable to the sexual advances of adult men. Sherlock’s stomach turned a little at the thought.  He didn’t want to think about it at all, but he knew it was the reality of their life.

For just a moment he again contemplated asking Molly to marry him now so that they could adopt the girls, but he knew it was impractical to start a marriage that way.  Even so, he felt that they were “his girls,” and he wanted to protect them always.  He wanted to tuck them away in his retirement home, Sparrow’s Nest, where they could always be safe and lead a normal life far from the horrors of what they’d already endured.  Sparrow’s Nest was his private retreat, his own bit of utopia that he’d been quietly building for a few years. Then there was the baby.  Yes, the baby would come too, of course.  They would be a family.

No, they could not be a family.  It wasn’t possible.  His brain could not completely wrap itself around the idea.  He also knew, however, that both girls needed intense psychological counseling to help them deal with what had happened, and all his good intentions could not erase trauma.  He wasn’t entirely certain how well Ionna’s health would fair as she got older.  Would her cocktail of drugs keep her alive or would she finally succumb to full blown AIDS?  If he were in charge, he would monitor her every drug intake and even possibly adjust the balance as she needed it.  He was a graduate chemist.  He could do it.

“I love them.” He said absently before he could retract his words.

They had yet to get out of the cab.

“What?” John asked.  That had come out of nowhere.

“The girls.  I want to find a way to adopt them.  I don’t know how.  I just think somehow they’re supposed to be with me.”

John was speechless for a moment as he tried to process Sherlock’s words. “Have you told them this?”

“No, of course not.  I have to work it out first.  It’s not practical.  I know it’s not practical.  Tell me it’s not practical.”

“It’s not practical.” John said.

“I don’t care.” Sherlock said quickly. 

“Have you mentioned this to Molly?”

“She wants children. It’ll be fine.” He tried to convince himself. “Instant motherhood.”

“No.  It’s rescuer’s syndrome.” John said.  “It happens sometimes.  The rescuer gets very bonded with the one who was rescued.  Doesn’t mean it’s supposed to be a lifelong commitment of fatherhood, Sherlock.  The girls are settled with your parents, but if Ionna’s baby gets brought over, that’s an entirely different adoption scenario.  How would you raise three girls in 221B?”

“I wouldn’t.  I’d take them to Sparrow’s Nest.”

“Your mythical retirement home.  So you’re ready to retire, then?”

“No.  No!” Sherlock insisted, and then he sighed in frustration.  “You’re right, of course.”

John simply rolled his eyes and got out of the cab.  Sherlock also got out of the cab.  “Just be like an uncle to them for now.”

“I don’t know how to be an uncle.” Sherlock said.

John gave Sherlock’s back a little pat.  “I’d say you’ve already been doing it very well, my friend.  Now, let’s have a look inside, shall we?”  Both men immediately put on fresh masks.

The second location was not an abandoned warehouse but an old cinema that was waiting to be torn down.  This definitely seemed like it could be one of Wiggin’s haunts although it reminded Sherlock a bit of the drug den where John had found him nearly eighteen months previously.  It was dimly lit, almost too dim for the eyes, and Sherlock pulled out his small but powerful torch.  Habitation was obvious not only by the squalor but stench of human waste and humans who hadn’t bathed in a while.  There were, perhaps twenty people scattered around the theater whose seats had been removed.  The theater was mostly stripped inside, and it had become little more than a third-world slum.   Unlike the warehouse, however, this place had no heat, and it was hardly warmer inside than outside. 

The people seemed a little alarmed at Sherlock and John, and they all shielded their eyes and squinted in the light of the torches, but since they weren’t policemen, they continued with either resting or eating food culled from rubbish bins behind restaurants.  None of them were moving particularly fast.  All seemed a little sickly.  There was no smell of death, but there was a strong odor of urine that hung like a fog in the air.  It ammonia was stifling but tolerable.  Somewhere someone was coughing, but it wasn’t from the main floor.  Even so, John took his time checking each person he could see for signs of fever or respiratory distress.

A baby began crying next to his sleeping mother.  Sherlock couldn’t be certain of their heritage, but he suspected them to be from one of the north African countries.  The mother was unresponsive to Sherlock’s gentle prodding, and even though the baby was crying, it was a weak, almost listless cry.  He put his hand on the mother’s head.  She was cold.  “John! Come quick!” 

John immediately brought his kit over to Sherlock’s position and checked for a pulse.  He then listened for a heartbeat.  “She’s alive but she won’t make it to hospital.  We need PHE here right now.”  He turned his attention to the baby. “Probably hasn’t eaten in almost two days and is cold and very wet. Hypothermia.” John and Sherlock quickly unwrapped the baby from its clothing.  The child’s bottom and genital area were completely covered in horrible rash from urine, and John’s attempt to clean the baby only brought intense wails of discomfort.  Sherlock gently stroked the baby boy’s head and spoke soft words of comfort as John cleaned him and applied soothing ointment.  Sherlock volunteered his scarf, and John wrapped the baby as best he could, then put him inside his jacket and zipped it to give the child body heat.  “It’ll be all right, little guy. Just hang in there.  Help is on the way.” John soothed. 

Sherlock took out his phone and texted Lestrade with his location and the urgent message:

SEND HELP NOW.  PHE.  AMBULANCES.  HURRY! SH

Sherlock looked up at the balcony section.  “I’m going upstairs.  I’ll let you know what I find.  You’ll be all right for a few?”

“Yeah, go.” John insisted.  He had all sorts of medical supplies but no baby formula.  There was nothing he could do for baby’s hunger until he could get him to hospital.  As one medical man alone, there was little he could do for any of them.

Sherlock ran out of the lower theater and back into the lobby, then took the wide, winding stairs up to the balcony.

The balcony was remarkably void of people which Sherlock found unusual.  It too was stripped of all seating, but with so much room, why wasn’t anyone up there?  The air quality was only slightly better.  Ever alert, he thought he heard a sound in his area.  He moved up towards the back and looked up at the projection booth. He shined his light up at the small windows.  Painted over.  Why?  What was the point of that in an abandoned cinema?  The noise again.  It was coming from the booth.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as if some visceral sixth sense was suddenly on high alert.

He ran to the back of the balcony, tripping up the stairs, then round the sides, desperately searching for the door.  Finding the door, he gave the knob a turn, but it was locked from the inside.  A young girl’s cry, however, had him immediately put his shoulder into the door, but it wouldn’t budge.  He finally kicked it open, but the moment it was open, he was rushed from the opposite side by a man who probably weighed one hundred pounds more than Sherlock and who was swinging a piece of pipe.  Sherlock ducked to the side as the pipe crashed into the door frame, narrowly missing his hands.  Only the speed of his own reflexes could help him now as he had no weapon

John heard the ruckus, but he wasn’t sure what was going on, nor was he willing to put the baby down.  He did, however, remove his gun from the medical kit.  He was going to be ready if the trouble came his way, and he hoped it wouldn’t.  For once, however, he could not come to Sherlock’s assistance.  Sherlock was on his own.

Sherlock jumped back as the length of pipe was swung at him again.  The man had not quite got his trousers on right as if he’d hastily dressed and struggled with them a bit for a moment.  That one moment was all Sherlock needed to rush him, forcing him backwards into the narrow stairwell leading up to the inside of the booth.  Sherlock’s fist immediately came down hard and fast on the man’s face a few times.  The man kicked him back, and Sherlock fell backwards out of the stairwell and onto the floor.  He quickly scrambled to his feet again as the man lunged for him again with the pipe, rushing Sherlock back against a wall, pressing the pipe to Sherlock’s windpipe.  Sherlock pushed back, but the man was slightly stronger.  Sherlock gave a swift kick to his groin followed by a knee to his stomach, and the man grimaced in pain giving Sherlock again the upper hand.  Another kick to the groin, and Sherlock wrestled the pipe away, immediately swinging it into the man’s kneecaps.  The man screamed and went down just as Sherlock caught him in the back of the skull with the pipe, knocking him into unconsciousness.  The man slumped to the floor, and Sherlock staggered for a moment to catch his breath before removing handcuffs from inside his coat and cuffing the man’s wrists behind his back.  Even if he woke up, he wouldn’t be moving very far.

With the man subdued and restrained, Sherlock sat back for a moment to catch his breath again.  “Sherlock! You all right up there?” John called from the semi-darkness.

“Fine!  Fine!” he called back as pulled himself up and looked up the stairs in the projection booth.  He couldn’t see anything, but it was surprisingly well lit.  He could hear a soft, muffled girl’s whimper, however, and he cautiously made his way up into the booth.

He was unprepared for what he saw. The thin, dirty mattress on the floor.  Fresh blood on the mattress.  Not much but enough. The lights focused on the mattress.  The video camera setup focused on the mattress. 

And the young girl.  Naked.  Not more than ten years old and curled into a fetal position, her long dark hair obscuring her face as she cried softly.   Sherlock looked away and quickly took off his coat and covered her.  His coat dwarfed her small frame, but he scooped her up into his arms, and she winced in pain.  “It’s okay.  You’re safe.  It’s okay.” 

She wouldn’t look at him.  Why should she trust him?  When he brushed her hair from her face, her young eyes were soulless, dead.  Olive skin, dark hair, dark eyes.  Sherlock guessed Middle Eastern, and he greeted her in several different languages, but she didn’t respond.  When he tried Punjabi, however, there was a spark of recognition.  She was Pakistani.  And she was not alone.

It was only because he spoke a language she knew that she gave him a tiny sliver of trust.  She pulled one small hand from inside his coat and pointed to a closed door in the booth.  He set her down gently and opened the door to the other room.

Five more young girls were in a small room strewn with old mattresses, ratty blankets and scant food.  They were mostly naked and dirty.  A bucket in the corner was a toilet. He’d seen better conditions in the slums of Calcutta.  Only a small window above offered any hope of fresh air. He immediately took off his jacket.

Lestrade arrived with backups within twenty minutes, and by that time Sherlock had gathered the young Pakistani girls into his own protective custody beneath his Belstaff and jacket, and the girls were gently carried away by the emergency medical workers.

As his adrenalin began to wear off, Sherlock began to shiver in the cold of the theater, and his hands were aching from the struggle.  He would be sporting bruises by the morning.

Lestrade looked down at the man on the floor. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

Sherlock nudged him firmly with his shoe and the man groaned. “Not quite.” Sherlock said.  “I want to see him rot in prison. The other prisoners will likely take care of the killing part for the justice system.” 

Lestrade took a moment to go up into the projection booth, but he didn’t stay long.  He didn’t need to.  The evidence was overwhelming.  He swore and cursed and kicked the door frame in frustration. “Get him out of here before I finish him off myself.” Lestrade snapped, and the man was hauled to his feet by two officers and led away.  Lestrade turned his attention back to Sherlock.  “He’s not the one you want, Sherlock.  He’s just one of the many.”

“Why is it taking you so long to find one child rapist whose videos are splashed all over the internet on child porn sites?  You know he’s probably here in Britain.” Sherlock groused.  “Probably in London for that matter.”

“It’s not always as simple to find someone in a video as you might think.  It isn’t as if we can broadcast the video on the nightly news, and if we broadcast his face, there’s a chance he’ll run.”

“I’m going to bring him down.” Sherlock said with determination.  “I don’t care how long it takes.  I’ll find him if I have to walk through the fires of hell to do it.”

“Well, maybe this bastard you got today will be able to cough up some decent information.”

“You think they’re all part of a club?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He shivered, and he could barely keep his teeth from chattering.  “You’d better hope you find him before I do,” Sherlock added bitterly, “because if I find him first, I will likely kill him, and I will bury him so deep you’ll never find him.”

“And I’ll help with the digging.” Lestrade agreed quietly.

John, having handed off the baby to the emergency care, returned to the scene with Sherlock’s jacket and coat, and Sherlock quickly put them on again and dug his gloves out of his coat pockets and put those on again although his hands were a little painful and starting to swell.

Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock’s back.  “I’ve got some hot coffee in my car.  Let’s get you two boys warmed up.”

Despite the best medical efforts, the baby John had attempted to save died of respiratory complications two days before Christmas.  The mother died before she was removed from the cinema.   Seventeen others were quarantined in hospital and treated for various stages of pneumonia.

The Pakistani girls were quarantined together in a multi-bed hospital room where they were treated for sexual injuries, malnutrition, physical abuse and early stages of pneumonia.  They would remain there for a few weeks.  Unlike with Ionna and Anichka, Sherlock kept himself distant from the Pakistani girls.  He was determined not to bond with them but to have them bond with their current caretakers.  He was not needed as a translator, not to mention his Punjabi, Pashto and Sindhi were weak as he hadn’t needed any of his Pakistani languages since his clandestine rescue of Irene Adler a few years earlier.  Foreign languages, when not in use, were stored in a special vault in his mind palace.  Only his French and Russian were always readily available although he could mumble his way though German at a moment’s notice if required.

The girls, who rather than suffer honor killings at the hands of their families, were purchased for a small fee and were taken into the sex slave trade and eventually trafficked into Britain.  The girls became known as the “dead girls,” and their story became headlines in the newspapers all across Britain.  It was a horrific moniker that caused Sherlock to fire off several scathing letters to the editors. As they were considered dead to their families and any attempt to return them to Pakistan would have resulted in their actual deaths, Britain granted them asylum almost immediately.  Their pictures were kept out of the papers, but the entire incident opened up a hornet’s nest regarding human trafficking, especially of young girls, child pornography, culture clashes in the streets of London over how old girls could be to marry in some religions, child brides, and what Britain was willing to tolerate.  It was not as black and white as Sherlock had hoped, and Scotland Yard was none too happy with the extra casework. 

The PHE was confident that it had found the source of the pneumonia outbreak as no new cases of that virulent strain surfaced after the cinema was exposed.  Molly never developed any symptoms, and neither did John nor Sherlock despite their exposure.

Wiggins was released from hospital just before Christmas and was taken to a private addiction recovery center.  Before going in, however, Sherlock thoroughly questioned him about the abandoned cinema.  Wiggins knew about the cinema as a place for homeless immigrants, but he never personally went there simply because he was always afraid of any diseases that they might be carrying.  He had likely caught his pneumonia from someone who had spent a little time in the cinema before joining the ranks of the homeless in London.  He was devastated to learn about what was taking place there, and he immediately gave Sherlock several other addresses to potentially check, and although Sherlock did visit the locations, nothing remotely resembling the find at the cinema was uncovered.  He gave Wiggins a printed image of the man he was looking for, but Wiggins didn’t know him and hadn’t ever seen him, but Wiggins said he would quietly ask around once he was out of treatment.  He threw his arms around Sherlock and thanked him for the opportunity and promised to get clean and stay clean.  Sherlock patted his back awkwardly.  Even though he knew Wiggins meant his words, he also knew that addiction was a daily struggle and that promises could easily be broken no matter how stalwart the conviction.

As all of the girls had had head lice, and Sherlock had to send out his clothes for special cleaning, and then he had to wash his hair with an insecticide shampoo.  He wasn’t certain if he had picked up any lice but he wasn’t taking any chances. He stood under a hot shower for a long time after his time at the cinema as if he could wash away what his mind had seen and could only imagine what had occurred and had been occurring for a few weeks at least.  He was deeply disturbed by it. He had to take a second shower within the hour of the first.  Even though he was clean, he couldn’t get the memory of the stench from the projection booth and the room with the other five girls out of his mind.  He was certain he could still smell it.  He would take a third shower if he had to.

Once the police investigation at the cinema was concluded, the cinema was torn down immediately. The man that Sherlock had apprehended was questioned repeatedly within the bowels of Scotland Yard, and he was quick to share names of child pornography buyers, websites, his nickname in online chatrooms and forums for that particular bent, and many arrests were made although some were in Russia and China requiring help from Interpol.  China denied such websites existed in their country as it was against the law despite evidence to the contrary.  None of the arrests, however, uncovered the man who had assaulted Anichka and Ionna on the small yacht, and Sherlock found himself completely frustrated by the turn of events.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock sat in mostly darkness in front of the fireplace in his flat at 221B Baker Street.  There were a few Christmas cards on the mantle.  He assumed Mrs. Hudson had put them there after finding them on his desk.  She had asked him if he was going to have a little gathering at the flat this year, but he had barely tolerated the previous gatherings and this year simply did not have the energy for it.  He did allow her to put up a few strings of fairy lights, but there were no boughs of holly, mistletoe or scented red candles with sparkling tartan bows.  No Christmas tree, baubles or candies except for the fruitcake his mother sent.  He didn’t like fruitcake in general, but hers was the best, and he wished she’d make it more often.

He had loved Christmas as a child.  Although his parents had tried to get him to believe in Santa Claus, he had always found the idea illogical, even as a very young child.  He didn’t believe in magical beings who could visit every child in the world when he knew very well that there were people who were suffering without relief.  Mycroft had made certain he knew that.  Mycroft enjoyed his gifts each year but found the fuss of the event to be almost intolerable.  Invariably his mother would be stressed and have a little meltdown at some point during the day.  There was, however, a certain magic to it the day that Sherlock did appreciate at his parents’ home: the way his mother so lovingly decorated, the way the tree sparkled so delightfully when all the house lights were turned off, the Christmas music playing through the stereo.  He loved listening to his father read from the Richard Halliburton books although sometimes he read from a literary classic.

He wondered about Ionna and Anichka.  He didn’t know if they’d ever had a decent Christmas before, but he knew they would have one this year.  His parents would make certain of that, and he had sent his parents money to buy things for them, but he had also ordered an IPad for each of them.  Mycroft had long before ensured that his parents’ house was properly wired for internet and wireless for any infrequent visit he made there.  His parents had the latest Apple computer with a large monitor, but they were still somewhat inept with Skype and other forms of instant communication.  The girls were hopefully able to teach them how to use it with confidence.  What his parents had purchased for the girls Sherlock didn’t know and didn’t care.  Except he cared a little.  He wanted them to be just as excited opening their gifts as he had ever been as a child. 

He knew they would likely be moved to a permanent home soon since no living relatives could be found that would take them, and it was felt that asylum in Britain was their best option.  He doubted he would see them again.  His parents didn’t really want to be raising two more children, and they were thankfully considered ineligible to adopt anyhow due to their advanced ages.  Even though Sherlock had made himself guardian in the event of his parents’ death, that responsibility was something he had to reluctantly admit that he was not readily willing to take on despite  his nagging paternal feelings towards the girls.  Although they had his phone number if they really needed him, he discouraged them from calling him unless it was a true emergency.  He needed them to bond with the people they were with, not with him.  Even so, he could not entirely extricate his heart from them, and he left a small window of hope open that somehow a miracle would occur and they could be his.

There was no magic this year, at least not with the horrors he had witnessed recently in rescuing the six Pakistani girls.  They were still in isolation in hospital, but gifts were flooding in for them from around the country and other parts of the world.  Sherlock thought about sending something for them but decided they were being well taken care of and that he needed to stay completely out of that situation.

John and Mary had invited him over for Christmas Eve dinner but he had declined.  Their first Christmas with their daughter seemed a bit maudlin to him, and he still wasn’t good with babies.  He didn’t dare call Mycroft, and although there was always an open invitation to spend Christmas with his parents, he had made his excuses there too.  He had told them he was working on a case and couldn’t make it.  It was lie, and he knew they knew he was lying, but they didn’t press the matter.  He hadn’t spent many Christmases there since adulthood, and with the two girls there, it had the possibility for more sentiment than he found comfortable.

Then there was Molly.  She was working at the morgue.  It was a high alert time for suicides, and she was working double shifts for several days, including being on call for seventy-two hours.  It bothered him that they were a couple but that they could not spend this first Christmas together as a couple.  Of course he already had it planned that that time the following year they would be on their honeymoon, partly because of the type of honeymoon he had planned and partly because he was determined that they would always spend Christmas together in the future.

Most of the time he didn’t even feel as if they were engaged at all because it was so secretive.  He didn’t want to be in public with her and cause her any undue media attention.  Somehow he wanted to change that, to occasionally be able to do the activities that were afforded other couples.  He had been reluctantly drawn into the world of celebrity, and it wasn’t a particularly good fit for someone so private.  He had publicists offering to work with him, but he had declined them all.  He decided that night to give no more interviews.  He would make the words, “no comment” synonymous with his persona.  Perhaps eventually the press would get so tired of hearing “no comment” that they would stop asking questions.  He would only speak at a press conference regarding a completed case, but he was determined to stop, as much as possible, the freight train of press about him before he ended up on one of the “Britain’s most eligible bachelor” lists or any such other lists.  It was annoying to even be on the “most influential” list.  The press, he knew, would write what they wanted and would constantly turn on him anyhow, just as they had in the past.

Even so, he let his imagination wander for a moment.  There would be a knock on his door at this late hour, and Molly would be there with gifts.  She wouldn’t be able to stay long because she had to hurry back to Barts, but perhaps they could share a drink in front of the fireplace.  Perhaps he’d put on some music and they would have a nice, slow dance together.  Perhaps they would exchange gifts.  Of course there would be a tree for her.  He would have had the whole place decorated for her.  She would like that sort of thing, but secretly so did he.  Of all the yearly holidays, he had a little sentiment reserved for Christmas. With Molly in his life, that sentiment had grown.  Only she wasn’t there to share it with him.

There was a knock on his door, and it startled him out of his reverie.  He practically jumped out of his chair and bolted for the door, yanking it open, hoping it was somehow Molly.  It was Mrs. Hudson.  She had a tray of Christmas goodies including individual mince pies.

“Sorry it’s late, but I knew you were still awake,” she said. 

“Come in, come in.” he said, and he flipped on the light.  She wasn’t Molly but she was tolerable at least.  He took the tray from her and set it on the table beside John’s old chair, and then there was an awkward moment of silence.  Chattering.  He was waiting for it to begin.

“Almost Christmas, Sherlock!  So what are you plans for Christmas Day?  Going to visit your brother or John and Mary or your parents?”

“If I’m lucky there’ll be a murder.” He said.  “Now that would be Christmas!”

“I’m not sure Santa will put that in your stocking, young man.”  She sat down in John’s chair and noticed the violin.  “Is that your new one? Let’s have a listen.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed deeply, but then picked it up and played her a little bit of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”  It was a little melancholy, even for him, and when he was finished, they were both silent for a bit.  “Not sure about this one.  The sound is a bit bright, and I prefer a more mellow tone.” He said as set the violin down again.

She dabbed her eyes a bit.  “No, it was lovely.”  She looked down at her watch and gasped, then stood up quickly.  “Ah, look.  It’s officially Christmas!  Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”  She gave him a brief embrace and a kiss on his cheek.

He handed her a small wrapped gift and kissed her on the cheek.  “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson.”

As soon as she left moments later, he quickly locked the door and shut off the lights, and he sat down in front of the hearth again in mostly darkness.  His phone buzzed with a text.  It was Molly.

          MERRY CHRISTMAS

          SO FAR ONE FROZEN HOMELESS GUY

          NO SUICIDES YET BUT A COUPLE OF BRIDGE JUMPERS

          PSYCH DEPARTMENT WORKING OVERTIME ALSO

          COMPILING NOTES DURING DOWN TIMES

          LOTS OF COFFEE

          YOU? MH

He grinned with complete delight.  She may not have been at his door, but she was at his fingertips.

          MRS. HUDSON STOPPED BY WITH MINCE PIES

          SHE’S TRYING TO FATTEN ME UP

          PLAYED THE VIOLIN

          GOING TO BED SOON.  SH

He waited for a moment and her next text came through.

          OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS AND WE’RE NOT TOGETHER.  MH

He responded quickly,

          I’LL LEAVE THE DECORATIONS UP.  SH

He sent the text then quickly added,

          MERRY CHRISTMAS, MH. SH

She responded,

          MERRY CHRISTMAS, SH.  MH

He thought about getting a cab to Barts, but if she happened to be involved in an autopsy when he arrived, he would not be allowed where she was working anyhow.  He had a little panic that perhaps he had not purchased an appropriate gift for her.  He knew her, and yet he didn’t know her.  He should have asked Mary for ideas.  Or Mrs. Hudson.  Or perhaps he should have purchased more gifts for her.  How many was he supposed to have given her?  She hadn’t sent him a gift at all, just a cryptic message that it would be late and there wasn’t anything she could do about it

He had a very sudden and compelling urge to see her, to do something for her, to make it special.  If sentiment really was a chemical defect found on the losing side, then he had no qualms that at that very moment he was losing.  It was welling up so strongly inside him that he felt he could scarcely breathe, but he could not shake it. 

Thirty minutes later he found himself at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in the courtyard by the large, decorated Christmas tree next to the fountain that stood like a sentry in the center.  He looked up at her office and could see the light on although he couldn’t see her.  He hoped she was there and had not simply left the light on.  He was dressed in his usual Belstaff and scarf despite the very chill temperatures.  He picked up his cell phone and texted,

          COME TO YOUR WINDOW.  SH

He tucked his phone back into his pocket, turned on his portable CD player with a Christmas accompaniment CD and let the music begin.  He pulled his violin from its case and began to play “Silent Night.” Although he wasn’t markedly sentimental for Christmas, he actually had quite the passion for old Christmas music with “Silent Night” perhaps being his favorite.  He glanced up at her window while playing but did not see her.  The light remained on, however. 

It began to snow in large, downy flakes, but he didn’t notice.  He moved directly onto his next piece, the Charles Gounod version of “Ave Maria” which he preferred to the Schubert version by the same title.  His playing was sweet and tender.

If Fabrizzi could have heard him play that night, he would have listened in the same rapt attention that those at Barts did.  The musical phrasing wasn’t mechanical at all; it was full of warmth and emotion. Had he looked up, Sherlock would have seen other faces pressed to windows.  Some staff ventured out into the courtyard to listen in the cold.  He didn’t notice them as he went directly into his next piece, “I’ll be home for Christmas.”  All of the fifteen pieces he played had a beautiful but melancholy air to them.  That’s how he felt.  Melancholy.  There was light applause after each piece, and there was hardly a dry eye when he played, “Christmas Time is Here,”

He finished with “O Holy Night.”  He wasn’t a religious man, of course, but yet every time he heard or played that song, he felt a deep stirring in his soul.  The music and the lyrics always captivated him with their beauty, and he never grew tired of it.

When silence fell in the courtyard, there was again light applause and a few came forward to compliment and thank him.  Someone brought him a small paper plate full of assorted Christmas goodies likely assembled from one of the nurses’ lounges, but most people headed quickly back indoors out of the chill.  Except one.  Molly.  She had not stood at the front of the crowd but further back, but as they dispersed she moved forward with a cup of steaming coffee.  “Black, two sugars plus one packet of instant cocoa.” She put it into his hands and whispered in alarm.  “Your hands are like ice!”

He desperately wanted to kiss her, but he could not.  Too many potential witnesses.  “Thank you.” He smiled warmly to her as he took a sip of the steaming liquid.  Just holding the warm disposable cup made him shiver a bit.

“That was a very lovely thing that you just did. Gave everyone here a bit of Christmas.” She said.

“I didn’t do it for everyone.”

“I know.” She smiled. “Very romantic.” She whispered and she winked at him.

He wanted a few more moments with her but knew he could not stay. “I should let you get back to your work before people start gossiping.”

“Well, if they weren’t gossiping before, they might start now.” She said. She had the same deep yearning to kiss him and could not express it.  She thrust her hands into her pockets.  “Thank you again, Sherlock.”  She turned and began to walk towards a set of double doors.

“You’re still not going to tell me what my Christmas present is, are you?”

“Nope.” She said without turning back.

“I’ll figure it out, Molly Hooper!” he insisted.

“No you won’t.” Molly said, and she returned to the warmth of Bart’s interior.

He packed up his violin and things by the light of the tree and in the quiet of the courtyard, and he left as silently as he had arrived.

The following morning The Time’s internet page had the news story,

 _Sherlock Holmes serenades St. Bartholomew’s Hospital with midnight Christmas violin concert_.

There was a grainy cell phone picture of him playing next to the Christmas tree and a very brief article based on a second-hand eye-witness account.  At least Molly wasn’t mentioned although the article did cite that he occasionally availed himself of the lab facilities for his research.  Well, that last bit wasn’t exactly new news.  There was, however, a link to a YouTube video of his playing, and he clicked on the link to find a brief video of the time he was playing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”  By the time he viewed the video, it already had over 40,000 hits, and that was just in the space of a few hours. _Damn._   It was starting to go viral.

He also received an email from administration at Barts.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_We were informed this morning of your unscheduled concert last night in our courtyard well past the hour when our patients are generally sleeping._

_Please let us know if you plan such an impromptu concert in the future so that we may better accommodate you._

_Happy Christmas,_

_St. Bartholomews_

They had only lightly scolded him, and he knew he deserved it a bit, but he had no qualms about doing it exactly the same way again should the urge arise.

His phone beeped with a text, and he picked it up to check it.

          HAPPY CHRISTMAS, HALF BROTHER!

          MADELINE AND I SEND OUR BEST WISHES. 

          BEST WISHES ALSO TO YOUR FAMILY.

          AND THE FIANCE. FH & MADS

It was followed by a silly Christmas selfie of Ford and Madeline. Sherlock smiled a bit.  He did love his little niece. 

          HAPPY CHRISTMAS FORD AND MADELINE.  SH

And simply because the mood struck him, he sent off another text.

          HAPPY CHRISTMAS, MYCROFT.  SH

He didn’t expect to hear back from Mycroft as Mycroft found Christmas entirely too sentimental for his tastes.  In general they did not exchange Christmas greetings.  He knew Mycroft would be spending the day alone as he always did.  He would likely bury himself in government work that couldn’t be as effectively handled on a regular business day.

Sherlock found himself terribly restless and full of energy on that day.  With Molly still working, he was nearly beside himself which was completely unusual for Christmas.  And just as he had impulsively gone to Barts the night before, he found himself at his parent’s home a few hours later.  They weren’t expecting him, and he didn’t come with gifts as all had been previously sent, but they were, of course, pleased to see him.  Mostly, however, he felt desperate to see the girls again, especially after the recent incident with the Pakistani girls.

“Lovely thing you did last night at Barts, Sherlock.” His mother said.

“You heard about that, did you?”

“We’ve seen the Youtube video!  Several friends sent it to us.” She kissed him on the cheek, and he kissed her cheek in return.

“Happy Christmas, Mummy.”

Ionna and Anichka were in the sitting room enjoying with their new things, but when they saw Sherlock, they immediately jumped up and ran to him and threw their arms around him.  He sank to his knees and embraced them tightly.  They were safe.  He kissed their faces several times.  _My girls._   Yes, he did feel they belonged to him, but seeing them only put his brain in another whirlwind of how he could possibly adopt them, father them, care for them.  Surely there was a way.  _My girls._   He loved them more than he thought was possible. John was right that he had bonded to them, but he didn’t know how to extricate that bond and he certainly didn’t want to.  They were in his arms and it felt so right, as if a broken piece of him was made whole by their very presence.   He groaned as he picked them both up, one in each arm.   “My girls!” he said out loud.

“Oh Sherlock put them down before you hurt yourself.” His mother scolded. “Anichka, come set an extra place at the table for Sherlock.”

He set them down immediately, and Anichka quickly ran off to do as she as was asked, and Ionna helped him with his coat.  She took his hand and looked up at him.  Her English was greatly improved although she struggled to find words on occasion.  “Sherlock. The Pakistan girls. Why they are called dead girls?”

“You know about them?” Sherlock asked.  Well, it had been on the news and in all the papers, but he wished that ugliness had been kept from them. 

“Why they are called dead if not dead?”

He struggled for a moment on how to best answer her, whether in English or Ukrainian, and he opted for the latter, feeling he could explain things more fluently in her native tongue.  She listened thoughtfully and then responded in Ukrainian _, I don’t want any more dead girls.  I want to help them.  It’s not right what happened to them.  Parents should not be allowed to kill their children over honor.  It’s not right._ She smiled at him. “I will write my book. I will tell my story. I will—I will…” she fought for the right word in English and grabbed up her new IPad and tapped into a translation program.  She typed in her word in Ukrainian and out came the translation in English.  She showed him the word.

“Dedicate.” He said. “You want to dedicate your book to them?”

“Yes.  Dedicate.  To them.” She smiled.

He took her head in his hands and kissed her on the brow, then pulled her into his arms again like a proud father.  She then took him to a her place on the sofa and showed him a project she was working on.  “Babusya teach me crochet.  I make baby clothes for Raisa.”

He looked at it and then suppressed a small laugh. “Ionna, this is much too small for Raisa.”

She was immediately crestfallen and began to tear apart her work angrily.  “How I to know how big she is?”  He grabbed her hands to stop her from ruining her work.

“Ionna, stop.  Stop.”  He held her to him to stop her.  She was frustrated and he knew it.  “Sweetheart, you’ll just start over but it will go much faster because you know how to do it now.  Even if you make it a little bigger than her age, it will be fine.  She will grow into it.”  He picked up a crocheted baby blanket draped over the arm of the sofa. “Did you make this?”  When she nodded he smiled.  “It’s perfect.  She will love it.”

“I thought I heard you!” His father said as he came into the room.  He embraced Sherlock briefly and patted his cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Dad.”

At dinner Sherlock cut out the wishbone from the turkey, and he asked who wanted to break it with him. Anichka immediately voiced her desire and grabbed one half.  Sherlock had a wish that he kept to himself – to somehow find a way to keep the girls, and he assumed that Anichka had a wish to stay at his parents’ house permanently if that could even be arranged.  He didn’t understand why Mycroft wasn’t moving mountains to accomplish it.  The tug of war on the wishbone began, and then it snapped, leaving Sherlock with the short end.   He applauded Anichka’s fortune but cursed to himself.  It was a stupid game.  It didn’t mean anything. Wishing and magic were nonsense.  Wishing didn’t make a thing happen.  Only action did.  He would need to take action.

While the girls helped his mother clean up after the meal, Sherlock stepped outside with his father as his father smoked a pipe. 

“Somehow I don’t think you came all the way out here just to see the girls.” His father said. 

“But I did, actually.”  Sherlock insisted.  “You know how I feel about them.”

“Yes.” His father said gently. “But I am concerned that you’re not prepared in the slightest to undertake fatherhood.  I don’t say that to be cruel, son.  It is the reality of your lifestyle.”

“I know it won’t be easy.” Sherlock admitted. “But they make me feel…” The words seemed to catch in his throat, and his father put a hand of support on his shoulder. Sherlock swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “They make me feel that fatherhood is possible for me.”

His father smiled gently. “They’ve only awakened that part of your heart. I’ve always believed it of you.”

“You just want grandchildren.” Sherlock said.

“No, it’s not about that.” He insisted. “Your heart is like a diamond in the rough, but life and Molly, I daresay, have been polishing it a bit, and that gives me great hope.”

“At least you have the one grandchild already.” Sherlock said, and there was an immediate icy chill between the two.  He hadn’t meant to broach the subject like that, but somehow it became a good conduit into another conversation he needed to have with his father. 

His father took a couple of puffs on his pipe, and it was followed by a tense moment of silence. 

“Dad, I know you sent him to medical school.  I know you sent him birthday cards.  I know he has a lovely daughter, Madeline.  And I know he wants to meet you.”

“How would you know he wants to meet me unless you have met with him?”  He eyed Sherlock sharply.

“I have met him.” Sherlock said simply.  “He’s lovely.  His daughter, your granddaughter, my niece is also lovely. I think Mycroft may be blocking him from entering the country.”

“Then you’d best stay out of it, hadn’t you?” he said simply.

“Too late for that.” Sherlock said.  “He’s your son.  He’s my half brother.”

“Sherlock I will not discuss this with you further.” He said sternly, much in the same tone he had used at times when Sherlock was a child.  “This talk will only upset your mother, and I will have to ask you to leave now if you intend to persist.”

Sherlock pulled his cell phone from his pocket.  “Mummy can’t hear us out here, Dad.”  He flipped through the photos until he came to a photograph of Ford and Madeline.  He held it up for his father to see.  It was the selfie from earlier that day. 

His father looked at the photograph.  Really looked at it. His eyes filled with tears.  “That’s him?  That’s really him?  It’s been so long since I’ve seen a picture.  He looks more like you than Mycroft.  And the girl.  She's beautiful.”

Sherlock scrolled to a short video he had taken at the museum so that his father could actually hear the voices of Ford an Madeline.  Tears spilled down his father’s cheeks, and he quickly brushed them away. “I’ve been a terrible man, Sherlock. Sins of the father.”

“No.  No!” Sherlock quickly interjected.  That was not what he wanted to hear. “Dad, it was a long, long time ago.  He has a right to meet you, and you have a right to meet him.” Sherlock said gently. “He doesn’t want anything except to know you.”

Sherlock’s mother opened the door at that moment and both men turned around guiltily to face her with his father hiding the phone behind his back which he quickly shuffled behind his back into Sherlock’s hands.

“What are you two up to out here?  Come inside before you both catch your deaths.” She rolled her eyes and went back inside. 

Sherlock and his father breathed a sigh of relief, and his father said, “When you return to London, email me the picture.  Not before.”

“Won’t Mummy see the email?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, but I won’t try to do anything behind her back about this.  I just don’t think you should be here when I broach the subject of wanting to meet him.  Now be a good lad and go back inside before she really gets suspicious. She’s better at deducing things than you are, you know.”

Sherlock smiled a little.  It was true.  He could never outsmart his mother, and he appreciated that about her.

Sherlock returned to London in the evening.  It had not been his intention to stay too long at his parents’ home despite Anichka and Ionna begging him to spend the overnight. 

He knew that he could clear out John’s old room and turn it into a room for the girls.  He could try to arrange his schedule so that he only worked cases during certain hours of the day.  He would investigate local schools.  He also knew they needed to continue psychological counseling.  His talents in the kitchen weren’t worth mentioning, but he could make certain the cupboards were filled, and surely there were enough Youtube videos on cooking that he could improve his skills.  The occasional body parts or experiments inside the refrigerator were an issue although he didn’t do much of that anymore.  Perhaps he could see about renting 221C and moving all his equipment and equipments down there.  He was making enough of a living to afford both places. That would be his laboratory and 221B would be his living space.  He could make it work.  There were countless single fathers in Britain also making it work.  Damn.  It was complicated and quite frankly was beginning to give him an anxiety attack.  He took a deep breath to try to calm himself. He would call his solicitor after the New Year to get the ball rolling.

Of course, he’d also have to break the news to Molly.  He didn’t know how she would respond as he generally didn’t bring up the girls when they were together.  They’d only been engaged for about six months, but to go into a marriage with to a man with two children would be a bit of jumping into the deep end for her, and he wasn’t sure she would do it.  _No, she would do it_ , he tried to convince himself.  He would ask her, but not until after the New Year.  He needed to speak with his solicitor first, and his solicitor was currently on holiday in India.

He sat down at this computer and typed a quick email to his father, attaching both an image of Ford and Madeline as well as the short video.  He hesitated for a few moments before hitting “send” as he knew it would cause tension between his parents, perhaps opening and rubbing salt into an old wound.  But wounds sometimes needed to be opened to be properly cleaned so that true healing could begin.  At least that’s what he told himself as he hit the “send” button.

He texted Molly.

          VISITED WITH PARENTS AND THE GIRLS.

          HOW WAS YOUR DAY?  SH

Her reply came a few minutes later.

          YOU WOKE ME. I WAS ASLEEP IN THE ON-CALL ROOM. 

          LONG DAY.  LONG NIGHT COMING UP.

          GOING BACK TO SLEEP FOR A FEW.  MH

Sherlock texted her again.

          SOMETHING IMPORTANT WE NEED TO DISCUSS NEXT TIME WE ARE TOGETHER. SH

That made his heart rate go up again.  He didn’t say what he wanted to discuss, but he’d at least mentioned that there was indeed _something_.  He jumped up from his desk and ran out of the room, bounding up the stairs to John’s old room.  He opened the door.

The furniture had long been cleared out although there was a built-in bookcase.  The wallpaper was yellowed and old-fashioned, probably a left-over from WWII.  John had never cared about that, but Sherlock was willing to have it taken down and give the entire room a fresh coat of paint as long as it wasn’t pink.  _White._   He would paint it a nice clean white.  The old wooden flooring  was slightly uneven in places, but a nice carpet pad and carpet would even that out.  The room was big enough for two single beds and an armoire.  Bunkbeds would free up even more floor space and give them room for other things like a cot for Raisa.  He had an armoire in his storage unit, and he could have it moved in.  Mrs. Hudson could help him find some nice new curtains for the girls.

He would hire a nanny for Raisa and keep Ionna in school.  Yes, definitely he would have to rent 221C, and then he would have to baby-proof 221B.  _One thing at a time.  Slow down.  Brain racing.  Deep breath._

Sherlock went to bed that night with restless excitement, a sense that his life was on a new course, on the cusp of a grand adventure called fatherhood.  He had made up his mind that he would pursue their adoption.  There was little that could be done to dampen his spirits.  Until the morning.

The beeping sound woke him.  It wasn’t his alarm but a text alert.  He squinted in the half light and grabbed his phone from his bedside table. The brightness of his phone was nearly blinding in the dawn hours.

          COME AT ONCE, IF CONVENIENT.  IF INCONVENIENT, COME ANYWAY.  FH

The text immediately grated him a bit as Ford had used Sherlock’s own words back at him.  It meant, among other things, that Ford read and perhaps studied John’s old blog.  Sherlock immediately texted him.

          TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS DIFFICULT AT THE LAST MINUTE THIS TIME OF YEAR.  SH

Although his first encounter with Ford had gone well, he wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea of flying to Germany on Christmas day.  Surely Ford could have mentioned whatever was so important earlier.

          SENDING A MAP.  FH

Within moments Sherlock received an email with a map attached to it.  Sherlock clicked on the map and blew it up on his large monitor.  Street view.  He switched to satellite view, then pulled the Google orange man down to the street to look around.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at what he saw.

          DID YOU GET IT? FH

          YES. WHY AM I SEEING THIS? SH

          PLEASE COME  AT THE NEAREST CONVENIENCE.  DO NOT DELAY.  FH

Mycroft had warned him not to get involved, but now it had taken a different turn, and there was no way to extricate himself from the matter. 

          ON MY WAY.  SH

Sherlock groaned and slumped back into his pillows.  _Damn._ This was not the way he wanted to start his day, not when he had so much planning to do for the girls.  Then again this might just be the diversion he needed to keep his mind off of everything he needed to do to prepare for them.  He waited another few moments before launching himself out of bed.

He took a quick glance out the window.  There was a beautiful but thin layer of fresh snow on everything, and although it had stopped snowing, it was bitterly cold and icy.  To get to Germany, however, was another matter, and he didn’t even know if he could get a ticket.  Nevertheless, he checked flight schedules and was able to book a seat.  He then took his morning shower and began to pack, and without a single word to anyone where he was headed, he boarded the flight to Germany and landed in Munich a few hours later to find the city embroiled in a fierce blizzard.  The streets were constantly being cleared, but even so it was slow going in the taxi which skittered more than once on an icy patch.

The taxi pulled up in front of the address on the map, and Sherlock looked out the window for a moment at the early 20th century building much like a grand hotel or a very large manor house.  How it had survived the allied bombings at the end of WWII he didn’t know, but it was a well preserved rose-brick building.   _Probably a former Nazi HQ_ , he thought.  He took a deep breath.  Another battle to fight.  He paid the driver, grabbed up his overnight bag, and stepped out of the taxi.

Sherlock turned up his collar against the biting cold and hurried inside the front doors of the building.  This was not going to be good.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been over a month since the last update. Sorry! Next chapter is already half written and should be up this week.

Sherlock made a fist and drew in a sharp breath as the needle was inserted into his vein.  The tourniquet was removed and his blood began to flow freely down the tubing into the machine where it was separated for platelets and then fed back into his other arm.  He could have had the needle that both removed and returned the blood, but he had once had a vein collapse from that, and it was extremely painful, like being stabbed in the arm.  After that he always opted for two needles.  He donated blood regularly at Barts, something he felt was not only a bit of civic duty but also as a way of giving back a little for them allowing him access to their labs.  Sometimes he donated platelets but because that was a lengthier procedure and he would get bored and restless within fifteen minutes, he only did it a few times a year. 

This, however, was not St. Bartholomew’s, and his platelets were required of him again.  He knew that technically he could donate platelets every seventy-two hours, but he found the procedure always produced residual bruising that didn’t go away for several days.   The small television attached to his chair was playing a movie he barely had interest in, and two hours into the procedure, his face was itching a little but he couldn’t move his arms to scratch.  A nurse noticed his discomfort and immediately gently rubbed his face with cloth.  Platelet donation resulted in some calcium loss, and that was the cause of the itching.  He was offered an antacid tablet containing calcium, and that seemed to help. 

He had arrived at the Advanced Institute of Oncology Care Center in Munich the day after Christmas.  He had sensed on his first visit with Ford that there was something more that wasn’t being spoken about Ford’s condition, but to be asked to come all the way to Germany to donate platelets meant that whatever it was in Ford had taken a turn for the worst.

He didn’t even see Ford when he first entered the Institute.  He simply signed in at the front desk and was immediately taken to Hematology for the platelet donation.  Afterwards he asked for directions within the hospital and was given a printed map.

Sherlock walked into Ford’s hospital room inside the Institute to find him sitting in an overstuffed reclining chair, with what he assumed was some type of chemo in an I.V. drip.  He was listening to violin music through his IPhone, and Sherlock immediately recognized himself as the violinist from his little concert at Bart’s.  “Oh you shouldn’t listen to that.  It’s really quite amateurish.” Sherlock insisted.

Ford looked slightly worse for wear than when Sherlock had recently seen him, but he brightened a little at Sherlock’s voice.  “Birgit found it on YouTube.  She may have a bit of a crush on you.”

“Actually, I think it’s you she has a thing for.  Governess falls in love with a widowed father.  That sort of thing. Like something out of one of those lurid Bronte novels.”

“But you do play beautifully, and a simple thank you would suffice.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and managed, “Thank you.”

“Artists are always so self-critical.  Have you ever auditioned for the London Symphony?”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.  “Really not interested, although I have received an offer to guest, but I replied no.”

There was a an awkward moment of silence, and not because of their conversation despite the fact that Sherlock abhorred small talk.  He wasn’t good at it, and it was terribly uncomfortable under the circumstances.

 “Thank you for coming even though we barely know each other and certainly you owe me nothing.  And I see you’ve donated platelets.  Again, thank you.”

“I’ll give blood in twenty-four hours.” Sherlock said as he pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. “Why didn’t you tell me about this when I was here before?”

“Not exactly a great conversation starter.” Ford said simply.  “I wanted you to know me for who I was without that-this getting in the way.”

“And what’s the prognosis?” Sherlock asked.

Ford took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Well, I’ll never walk Madeline down the aisle.” Tears filled his eyes. “But there’s always hope for a miracle, isn’t there?  There’s a brilliant place in Mexico, a special naturopathic clinic.  Their pioneering work has had great results since the 1930s.  I’ve been trying to get in, but there’s a waiting list.  There’s a waiting list for their trained caretakers as well.  I have studied their literature extensively and I am trying to follow the regimen at home but I am just not able to keep up with it.  It requires a lot of energy for all the shopping and food preparation, and energy is not something I have much of these days. Friends from church come and help some, but they’re not always available.  Three steps forward, two steps back. So I am forced to undergo poison to try to kill it.  Then the clinic probably won’t take me because I’m on chemo, so it’s a bit of a catch 22, isn’t it?” he said.  And yet he smiled.  “How was your Christmas holiday, Sherlock? Tell me something happy.”

“I saw my parents.”

Ford’s eyes lit up. “Good. Good!  Do tell me, how is our father?  Sorry.  And your mother.  How are they?”

“In good health.  They are fostering a couple of lovely young girls from the Ukraine. Probably the nicest Christmas the girls have ever had.  It was good to see them as well.  They are quite special girls. I’m going to ask my solicitor about adopting them as soon as he returns from vacation.” He said. 

“Now that _is_ happy news!  We shall have to celebrate!” Ford said. “I don’t know you that well, but I think you’ll be terrific at it.”

“Really?” Sherlock was bit surprised.  Ford was actually the only one who so far had thought it was a good idea. 

“Fatherhood happens in the heart before the child even arrives.  It’s more an act of will than biology.  And your fiancé is all right with it?”

“I haven’t broached it with her.” Sherlock admitted.  It suddenly seemed like a really bad idea that he hadn’t told Molly.

Even Ford was a bit taken aback by it. “If she’s open to the idea, I would suggest you marry her immediately so that the girls can have a mother and a father.  I think Madeline suffers a bit without her mother.  Oh she has Birgit who is practically a mother to her, but it’s not really the same thing, is it?”

“Single parent adoption is perfectly acceptable in Britain.” Sherlock countered.

“But why do it alone, Sherlock?” Ford eyed him intensely and then gasped suddenly with the realization, having deduced the truth.  “They were part of one of your cases, and you bonded to them.  Oh, that’s a tough one.”

“No.  It’ll be fine.” Sherlock insisted firmly.   “It’ll all be fine.  Let’s go back to the part where you thought I’d be terrific at it.”

Ford smiled graciously and warmly.  He wasn’t up for a debate on any subject.  He had little to no energy at all at the moment, and it was exhausting him just to keep the conversation going with Sherlock.  “My opinion hasn’t changed.”  He took a deep breath before continuing.  “And our older brother.  Was he there?”

“Oh no.  He prefers to spend Christmas alone.  He finds it too sentimental and maudlin.  I like to send him something completely over-wrapped and colorful each year just to annoy him.  I once sent him a ten pound solid milk chocolate cube.  I think he still has it.  I haven’t been over to his place in a while.  He’s not terribly good at having house guests. It’s his sanctuary.”

“And what does he send you?”

“Generally nothing.  Oh, he’ll send my parents some little token, and he’d get me little things when I was a small child.  New slides for my microscope, some sort of science trinket, but he stopped that once I was in university.  In fairness, however, he can be helpful at times throughout the year.”

The conversation was terribly awkward, and Ford shuddered a little and gritted his teeth through a wave of nausea.  Sherlock wished John were there to help with the medical end of things even though John’s specialty was not oncology.  When the nausea passed Ford said, “If you hadn’t contacted me, I would have contacted you by now.  I have but one request, Sherlock.  It is the one mentioned before. Time is not my friend right now.”

“I broached the idea of a meeting with my father yesterday.” Sherlock said. “I think he is open to the idea, but my mother may not be, and he will not go against her wishes.”

Ford’s tears spilled then, and he wiped them away quickly. “Sorry.  Sorry.”

“What can I do?  How can I help?  Tell me what you need.”   Sherlock said.  He adjusted the blanket on Ford as a small gesture.

“Will you stay for a few days?  I’ll go home tomorrow and I won’t be good for much.  Never am after a chemo session.  Birgit takes care of Madeline’s needs.  I’ll be mostly back to normal in a few days.  I’ll show you the information about the clinic.  Perhaps your brother – our brother – could have some pull and help make it happen for me. Hippocrates said, _Let food be thy medicine and medicine thy food._ It is the cure, I believe. _”_

“Things are a bit quiet with the criminal classes at the moment.” Sherlock mused.  “Molly is working all the time.  So I am at your disposal.”

“The sofa in the living room folds out into a bed.  It’s a little lumpy but sturdy.”

“Not to worry.” Sherlock assured him, and then his tone softened. “Does Madeline  know?”

“She asks if I am going to go to Heaven to be with her mother.”

“What do you tell her?”

“I tell her that her mother has to be patient.”

“How long does she have to be patient?”

Ford swallowed hard.  “Three to six months. She doesn’t know that part. If I could get to Mexico, I might stand a fighting chance.  Now I’m not so sure I am strong enough to make the journey if I could.”

“It’s just the chemo talking.” Sherlock insisted, and Ford bravely smiled and nodded in agreement although he didn’t actually agree.  There weren’t many times in Sherlock’s life when he was at a loss for words, but this was one of them.  He wasn’t adept at giving comfort, especially to a man, even if the man was a half brother.  Stiff upper lip.  Carry on.  That’s what he would do.  Of all the men he should have ever let his guard down with in a time of emotional crisis it was John, but even as he had been about to depart on a six month mission from which he likely would not have returned alive, he had been only able to offer John a little brevity in conversation and then a handshake. _To the best of times._ “I’ll see if Mycroft can pull some international strings, but don’t get your hopes up.  His milieu is more in the political arena than the charitable one.”

Later while Ford slept a little, Sherlock pulled out his cell phone and texted Molly.

IN MUNICH FOR A FEW DAYS WITH FORD.

WILL TEXT YOU WHEN I RETURN. SH

Ford remained in the reclining chair all night while Sherlock slept on the hospital bed.  He didn’t tend to Ford’s needs as Ford was well looked after by the nursing staff, and mostly he slept anyhow.  When they brought Ford breakfast in the morning, he refused it claiming nausea.  Sherlock would have eaten it, but Ford didn’t even want the smell of it in the room.

Sherlock donated a pint of blood later that morning, and the blood was slowly infused into Ford, a procedure which took about four hours, but Ford brightened considerably with the fresh A+ blood from his half brother. “I’ve had many infusions of A+,” Ford said. “Of course, the body recognizes that the DNA inside the blood cells is not your own and begins to build antibodies.  It’s not too much of an issue at first, but if one regularly receives transfusions, it becomes a problem.  Your blood, on the other hand, is closer to my own DNA, so perhaps I won’t have as much a problem.”

“The body is a remarkable organism.” Sherlock said.  While he had a lot of medical knowledge, he wished John or Molly were there to bolster that end of the conversation.

“Sherlock, how were you at maths in school?” Ford asked.

”I was more than proficient.” Sherlock replied with a shrug. He didn’t want to boast that he always had high marks.  Somehow boasting was irrelevant.  He had no need to trump Ford.

“Good.” Ford said simply.  “I want you to solve a math problem.  Backwards.  Tell me what numbers you come up with.  Feel free to use the internet for research and data.”

“What is this for?”

“You said on our last visit that you appreciated my thorough research in the articles I wrote but that you disagreed with my findings.  So I am issuing you a challenge.   I know your brain works infinitely faster than mine, so please, tell me what you come up with.” 

Ford laid out the math problem, and Sherlock took notes and within minutes was on the internet searching for the numbers he needed for his equations, and he began to gather the data, his brain firing on all cyclinders to begin to extrapolate a conclusion.  An hour later he scratched his head and frowned.  “This can’t be right.”

“That was my first reaction.  Let me see what you’ve got.”

Sherlock handed him the paper. “It would be ridiculous to subtract further.  The numbers would simply disappear to nothing.”

“Exactly.” Ford said.  “Now, I will give you a number to start at based on current scientific theory, and I’d like you to move the numbers forward from that number and tell me what you get.”

Sherlock groaned inwardly, not at the fact that he was asked to do it but that he instantly knew what was wrong with the current scientific numbers.  Nevertheless he worked the numbers, shaking his head in disbelief.  Impossibly high numbers. “Completely impossible.”

“Exactly.” Ford said. “You are a scientist at heart, Sherlock.  Go back and examine the standard theory and put its claims to the test. Accept none of it as fact.”

“You are a creationist. Young earth and universe.”

“I am a Christian, Sherlock, and you just did the math all by yourself.  You cannot take the population growth numbers of this earth back more than five to six thousand years.  It just ends in nothing.  Whereas if you start population where science says it started in time, there isn’t enough room in our solar system to hold all the people that should be here.  You just saw the evidence.”

“My deductions could be wrong.” Sherlock insisted.

“But your math isn’t.  However, feel free to redo it as many times as you like.  I daresay you will come up with approximately the same numbers.”

“And is that supposed to make me believe in a God now?” Sherlock asked, and then he gasped. “Oh! You really do believe in Heaven!   Fascinating!”  Immediately he regretted his enthusiasm as there was pain in Ford’s eyes.  Not the pain of a man who had taken offense but the pain of a man who was experiencing the end of his mortality.  “Sorry, Ford.  That was a bit not good of me.”

“It’s all right.” he said as he waved his hand dismissively.  “Sherlock, do you know why you can’t believe anything an atom tells you?” Ford waited for Sherlock’s answer as the detective searched his brain for a scientific response.  Ford answered his own question. “Because they make up everything.”

It took Sherlock a few moments to realize he’d been had, and then he smirked. “Oh that’s a good one.  I’ll have to try it on Mycroft.”

Ford had arranged for Birgit to take Madeline out for the afternoon.  He never liked her to be there when he first returned home after a treatment in case he was having a particularly rough time.  He liked to be settled in and resting in his favorite chair.  He wanted to appear as normal as possible.  After Sherlock got him settled, he asked, “Right then.  So you should go back on your juicing.  Shall I make it for you?”

Ford shook his head.  “My body will have too strong a reaction in trying to detoxify from the poison.  It’s better to wait a bit.” 

Instead he asked Sherlock to play the DVD about the alternative care center in Mexico.  Sherlock watched guardedly, unsure whether he was about to be religiously proselytized after his and Ford’s earlier conversation or if he was going to be shown something that was more of a mystical healing center with no real medicine at all.  In fact, he was wrong on both counts, and he found himself Googling the founders as he was watching.  All natural.  All organic.  He wondered if his mother had heard of the place as she had been very focused on organic foods during his upbringing.  He composed a quick email to her to see what she knew.  He rarely consulted her on anything, but organics was an area of special interest to her. 

He didn’t realize how quiet Ford had become, but when he turned to look at him, Ford was asleep.  He didn’t know what time he was expecting Madeline and Birgit to return, but he quietly got up and went into the kitchen.  He was immediately confronted with the large juicing machine spoken of in the DVD.  The refrigerator was stocked with bags of organic produce, mostly carrots.  The work to juice it all was enormous.  It was too much for someone who was ill not to mention Ford’s other ailments.  Ford needed help that Sherlock could not truly offer.  This was beyond his scope of experience and emotional depth.  He felt completely overwhelmed. 

Clearly the chemo wasn’t working all that well if Ford had only three to six months.  It was only buying him a little more time and in the worst possible way.  What could it hurt to go to Mexico and try the alternative treatment?  The anecdotal evidence seemed very good.  There was a medical doctor on staff. 

Sherlock texted Mycroft.

I NEED YOU TO PULL SOME STRINGS.  SH

Mycroft responded almost immediately.

WHAT IS IT THIS TIME?  MH

Sherlock hesitated, suddenly doubtful that Mycroft would acquiesce to help especially when he had warned Sherlock to stay out of anything to do with Ford.

SORRY, MEANT TO TEXT MOLLY.  MH AND MH.  CONFUSING.  SH

WHATEVER IT IS, IT WILL HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL YOU RETURN FROM MUNICH. MH

Of course Mycroft knew almost instantly that Sherlock had left the country.  Sherlock’s passport activity was always sent to him.  Mycroft never interfered with Sherlock’s clandestine travels, but he was always aware of them.  Sherlock’s activities were always under surveillance in one fashion or another, 

He didn’t know if Mycroft would believe his cover story, but he didn’t quite have the wherewithal to press the issue of helping Ford especially since Mycroft had been so reticent before regarding Ford.  He would find a way himself, but he wasn’t even certain he had contacts in Mexico.  It wouldn’t have been any issue at all for Mycroft to have picked up the phone and rang the Mexican ambassador in London.   He knew that Ford would have to be flown to San Diego in California and then driven across the border by one of the clinic’s drivers.  Border travel was best done with an experienced driver, especially in Tijuana. 

Birgit and Madeline arrived an hour later, and Ford was still asleep in his chair.  Sherlock motioned them both quiet.  Madeline immediately ran to Sherlock and threw her arms around him and looked up at him with a big, dimpled grin.  He picked her up into his arms and kissed her sweetly on each cheek.  “Did you bring me anything?” she asked hopefully.

“No, but I’ll take you for an ice cream later if you’re good and let your daddy sleep.” He promised.

“I’ll be very quiet.” She whispered as she put a small finger to her lips and added, “Shhsh.”

He took her for ice cream later not only to fulfill his promise but to test himself with her, to see if he could tolerate the chatter of a small child and to get in a little experience of dealing with a child by himself, even though Anichka and Ionna were well beyond Madeline’s years.  Ionna’s baby would eventually be this age, however.  Madeline chattered non-stop at him until he began to filter her, much as he did with Mrs. Hudson.  He had to force himself to concentrate and stop filtering, even though she babbled on happily about the most inane topics.  He had to tidy her hands and face afterwards with a little water and tissues that fell apart immediately.  Aggravating.  He wasn’t prepared for that.  She asked to see his phone and asked why he didn’t have Angry Birds on his phone and could he please put it on so that she could play it.  He declined, but he did show her pictures of his parents.  She wrinkled her nose.  “They’re very old.” He showed her a picture of Mycroft.  “He looks mean.”

“Sometimes.” Sherlock agreed.

And then she was back to Angry Birds but he still refused to download the program for her.  He told her she could wait to play it when she got home.

When he brought her home, he apologized to Birgit that she was a bit sticky, but Birgit insisted that it wasn’t a problem and that she would get her cleaned up.

Ford was sitting up in his chair and sipping a glass of ice water.  It soothed his stomach and blistering mouth.  “You survived.” He said simply.  “Did she talk your ear off?”

“In three different languages.” Sherlock smiled cheekily. “I hope the sugar doesn’t make her hyper. I’m a bad uncle.  I let her have two scoops.”

“Don’t worry.  Birgit can settle her down.”

It wasn’t but a few minutes later, however, when they heard Madeline scream.  It wasn’t a scream of terror, but it made the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand at attention.  The scream was followed by a wail and angry, screaming words at Birgit.  Then more hysterical crying.  The child suddenly ran into the room in only her pink kitten-print underpants clutching a scrap of tattered blanket, and she collapsed in an inconsolable heap at her father’s feet. Birgit followed closely behind. 

“I had to wash it. It was disgusting.  It just fell apart.” She explained as she held up a few more pieces of the blanket.

He nodded and waved her away in a way the meant it was all right.  “Madeline.  Maddie.  Mads. Birgit didn’t mean to ruin it.  It was an accident.”

That only sent up a new wail.  Ford turned to Sherlock.  “She’s had it since she was a baby.”

Sherlock understood sentiment even if he tried to block it out most of the time.  Even so, he had no clue what to say to comfort the child.  It was awkward, and he felt inadequate.  A poor example of an uncle.  He actually knew little to nothing about relating to a child so young.  He was glad that Anichka and Ionna were so much older.  He could reason with them, but clearly there was no reasoning with his disheartened niece.  She was having a meltdown, and it was made worse by the fact that she was tired and needed to go to bed.

“Madeline, poppet, I’m sorry it was ruined.  Now get up and go apologize to Birgit for the mean things you said.” Ford said.

“No! I don’t want to! I hate her!” she wailed again.

Ford sat up in his chair, and his voice was sterner.  “I didn’t ask you.  I told you, and I will not tell you again.”

Madeline pulled herself up and wailed loudly as she padded back towards her bedroom. 

Ford stood up slowly and when he wobbled a bit, Sherlock rushed forward to steady him but Ford held up his hand and shook his head.  Even so, he picked up his cane and leaned on it. “I’d best see her to bed.  She’ll want a story, so make yourself comfortable.  Peruse the books on my shelves.  Whatever you’d like.”

“I could do it.” The words flew out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could retract them.  “The bedtime story thing.  I could do it.  I can do it.  I have done it. I want to do it.  Good practice for me.”

Ford shrugged.  “Well then, I think you should.  Don’t be offended, however, if she only wants me.”

Sherlock made his way back to Madeline’s room where Birgit was just getting the child into her nightgown.  The girl was still whimpering a little and clutching the remains of the blanket.

Fathers read to their children.  Good fathers, that is.  Sherlock’s father had read to him, and Sherlock had always liked it because his father put so much effort into different voices and characters.  Sherlock set ground rules with Madeline, however.  She was to close her eyes and listen and be very quiet. She snuggled up under his arm, still clutching her scrap of blank, and her thumb went into her mouth.  He wasn’t certain how he felt about that, but she wasn’t his child.  He read a book of her choosing, a little embarrassed to put the effort into it that his father had, but he didn’t want to sound monotone either.  Occasionally she shuddered the last remnant of her tears and clutched her scrap more tightly, but he had read for no  more than 10 minutes before he felt her body totally relax, and he knew she was asleep.  He smiled to himself in victory.  This fatherhood stuff wasn’t so difficult.  He would definitely read to his girls every night.  It would be their routine.

Yet somehow it didn’t feel real.  It didn’t feel right.  It was all play-acting.

“I feel out of place here, like I don’t really belong.” Sherlock said to Ford when he returned to the living room. “I’m uncomfortably out of my element.”

“It’s all right if you don’t stay.  We don’t really know each other that well, do we?  And I’ve dropped a bombshell in your lap.  Sorry.” Ford asked.

“No, I didn’t say that.” Sherlock insisted. “This is just not my milieu, a word Mycroft likes to use.”

“I should like to meet him someday.” Ford said softly. “But as you know, time is not on my side.  So, if it never happens, it will be disheartening but I will understand.  Even so, my heart longs for it just once.  I’d like to meet all your family, your friends, your fiancé.  Tell me more about her.”

Sherlock was tempted to share more about Molly, how much he loved and respected her, but the gravitational pull towards the open caring and sharing that was normal for Ford was still a little off-putting.  He was willing to share his heart in intimate moments with Molly, but even then there were parts of his heart that he kept in check behind locked doors.  Sherlock checked his watch.  “Ah.  Time for your juice.  I’ll get it for you.”

Sherlock nearly popped out of his chair to further avoid the conversation’s direction, and he immediately headed into the kitchen.

Sherlock stayed for three more days, sleeping fitfully on the massively uncomfortable fold-out sofa bed where he was awoken several times by his own dreams about Anichka and Ionna being in some sort of peril or turmoil that he, as their father, could not resolve.  Perhaps, he reasoned, all fathers had troubling dreams about their children being in peril.  He placed no significance in the meanings of dreams except that his subconscious was working overtime trying to assimilate this new direction he wanted to take with his life.  He was fairly certain that in real life there was no situation he would be met with that he could not handle, even if he had to ask for advice. 

Ford had been very encouraging of the new direction Sherlock was taking with his life, and Sherlock had discussed his living arrangements in detail with Ford while Ford offered suggestions of things Sherlock needed to take into consideration when taking on older children, especially one who would likely be dating within a few years.  That had not been on Sherlock’s mind regarding Ionna.  There would be no dating, and all outings with boys would be chaperoned.  Also, Ionna would have responsibilities with her daughter.  School work would come first always. 

“And who will purchase her feminine hygiene products?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly as the thought entered his brain. “I’ll give her money to buy why she needs in that department.”

“It’ll still be your responsibility to make certain the flat is always stocked.”  Ford insisted.  “And will you take Anichka to purchase her first bra?”

Again Sherlock blinked rapidly.  “I have friends who can help with that.”

“Raging teenage hormones.  They’re not just about boys.  There will be mood swings and drama.  Oh the drama.   It’s like an analogy my pastor once gave – that when they’re teenagers the aliens come and get them, and when they reach their twenties, the aliens bring them back.”

“You speak as if from experience.”

“I was involved with youth ministry for years until I just couldn’t keep up.” He said. “I love teenagers.  They’re so vibrant and on the cusp of adulthood, cutting the tendrils of childhood but still in that middle ground.” He smiled thoughtfully for a moment.  “I’m not going to do the chemo anymore, Sherlock.  It’s not working anyhow.  I’m going to get my body clean.  I need that clinic.”

Sherlock checked his watch.  “Time for your carrot juice.”

“Yes, that’s what you say every time you want to avoid something.”

Sherlock stopped immediately but didn’t turn back to him.  “Don’t like me too much, Ford.  I’m the biggest arse you will ever have the misfortune to meet.”

There was a moment of silent, but then Ford began to giggle.  Then he laughed heartily.  “Your humor slays me, brother!”

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, but he didn’t understand why Ford found the statement humorous.  He sighed deeply and rolled his eyes and went to fetch the juice.

Of course Sherlock couldn’t promise any true help in securing a place in the clinic for Ford.  He could only make inquiries with Mycroft, and he hoped Mycroft would be completely dismissive despite the fact that that was exactly what he was expecting.

Sherlock had learned quickly how to work the large, masticating juicer and would make Ford’s daily supply of organic carrot juice at the start of the day, then make certain he had some every hour on the hour during waking hours.

They discussed at length the psychological and physical trauma the girls had endured and how they would need professional counseling and therapy for years and that they would likely always have trust issues while at the same time gravitating back towards the abusive behavior since that’s what they knew and that Sherlock could not simply _love_ them out of those patterns.  Sherlock was wanting to step into fatherhood with two ticking time bombs, and while Ford admired his tenacity, he assured him there would be days of parenting that would be more than he could handle.  “it’s different when  you get them as an infant.  You grow in parenting as they grow.  You’re jumping into the deep end with a couple of sharks.  They may not have bitten you yet, but they will bite eventually.”

“They’re not like that.” Sherlock insisted.

“You’re wearing rose-colored glasses, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed.  “Well, that’s something I’ve certainly never been accused of.”

Yet Sherlock did wonder if he was romanticizing fatherhood and parenthood simply because he had fallen hopelessly in love with the idea of taking on the responsibility of Ionna and Anichka.  And the baby.  He always seemed to forget the baby in the equation. 

He returned to London just before the new year, and immediately his world was turned upside down.  He had thought that perhaps the worst day of his life had been when he had been chained crucifix-style in the cellar of a Serbian military prison and had been beaten mercilessly by his torturer.  When he had refused to give up any information about his mission, the torturer had picked up a metal pipe.  His next step was to start breaking Sherlock’s bones.  Sherlock sensed his possible death was near and had made some quick deductions about his torturer’s home life.  Those deductions had saved his life.

The day he returned to London was not the worst day of his life but ranked in the top five.  It was the day he was informed that Anichka and Ionna were denied the right to stay in Britain and were to be returned to the Ukraine.  Relatives had been found for Anichka, but Ionna was not claimed by Anichka’s family members.  They didn’t know who she belonged to, although it was suspected that she had been abandoned to Maria Abramovich’s care by a prostitute when Ionna was a very small child.  Ionna’s real mother was presumed dead, and the country was now investigating who she belonged to.  Certain they would find her relatives, she was also to be returned to the Ukraine, but the girls would be separated.

Dzubenko, who knew nothing of Sherlock’s plans for the girls, extolled the virtues of reuniting the girls with their relatives and that Ionna would also be reunited with her baby.  She would go to spend time with Dzubenko’s family and bond with her baby while the search was done for her relatives.  He was terribly upbeat with the scenario, even suggesting that of course it was best for the girls to return to their native country.  If there was any saving grace, it was that Ionna would be safe with Dzubenko, and that Dzubenko promised to keep tabs on both girls and send Sherlock updates of their progress. 

Ripping the girls apart, girls who had always known each other as sisters, however, was a horrifying thought.   It was a blow that completely blindsided him.  He knew that their placement with his parents was temporary, but he had expected them to be granted asylum and to then be placed in a permanent home.  His home.  He had planned it.  He had seen it in his mind.  He knew the details of how it would have worked. 

Although technically they were being deported, their entrance into Britain had not been of their own free will nor did they have passports.  Sherlock did not want them to have any type of record with Interpol that would affect their travel in the future.  It wasn’t fair.  It wasn’t just.

The British government had flights arranged for the girls on 2 January, but as it was 30 December when he received the news, he asked Mycroft to intervene with immigration to give him time to prepare the girls.

“You are too involved, Sherlock, and Mummy and Dad can handle it.” Mycroft said simply.  “The girls are young, and there’s no point in prolonging the inevitable.”

“They should have been granted asylum, and you could have helped them but you chose not to.” Sherlock seethed at his brother in Mycroft’s office.

“Immigration is not my department.” He said calmly. “But if it makes you feel any better, I understand that the Ukrainian ambassador to the U.K. will personally accompany them back to their homeland. Why have you become so attached to these two little gypsies?”

“Call them gypsies again and I will have to break something on your face.”

Mycroft stood up and faced his younger brother squarely. “Always so aggressive.  Once again your emotions are involved, and this is not a situation you can change or win.  Caring is a disadvantage, Sherlock.  Why must I keep reminding you?  Or have these children made you go soft?”

Sherlock rarely swore at Mycroft, but he used a string of swear words that took Mycroft by surprise, and he also told Mycroft exactly where he put the case files which had painful overtones.

Mycroft pressed a hidden button under the  edge of his desk, and almost immediately the door to his office opened and two burly agents in dark suits walked in.  “Please escort my brother off the premises.  By force if necessary.”

“Don’t bother.  I know my way out.” Sherlock snapped as he turned and stalked out, but he made an obscene gesture at Mycroft as he turned and left.

Sherlock called his solicitor immediately.  He had never questioned that there would be any possibility of the girls returning to the Ukraine.  Had he thought they might, he would have hired an immigration attorney immediately to stall the process.  Now he feared it was too late, but he was determined to try. A good solicitor could often work miracles, and Sherlock needed a miracle. “Where were Anichka’s relatives before this time?  They don’t care about her!  And it’s wrong to split up the girls.  I won’t have it.  They are all each other has.”

“I understand your sentiment, but returning the girls to their relatives is the best option for them.” His solicitor calmly said.

But Sherlock wasn’t feeling calm and he let out another string of swear words that burned through his smart phone.  He wasn’t a man who normally swore like that, but this—this was different.  This was his heart being ripped apart, and he was fighting to keep it whole.  It simply wasn’t what he had expected.  It simply didn’t fit his plans. 

The day for deportation was not rescinded, and Sherlock immediately dropped all his casework and went directly to the offices of the Ukrainian ambassador to Britain. 

 “Mr. Holmes, I assure you that every avenue possible was explored to keep them in the United Kingdom, but when family members are found who are willing to take in the girls, it is only right to return them to their homeland.”

“But do they truly want them or are they just obligated?  Will they be loved and nurtured or just extra mouths to feed?” Sherlock asked curtly.

“It is not required that a relative take an orphaned child.” The ambassador said gently.  “However, duty to do so is a very high calling and must be respected. We will endeavor to see that the circumstances which got them to this country are not repeated.”

“I doubt you have any control over that.” Sherlock said curtly.

“it is a difficult situation for all of us, Mr. Holmes, but I do believe the best outcome has been achieved, don’t you?” the Ambassador smiled at him.

But Sherlock didn’t smile.  Best outcome indeed.  He knew he was fighting a losing battle.  In fact, he’d already lost and had to give himself over to fact.  He had to stop fighting the inevitable.

Sherlock rented a car and made for Devon as quickly as possible.  As soon as his car pulled into his parent’s snow-covered driveway, the girls excitedly dashed out of the house to greet him.  They threw their arms around him and hugged him tightly while his mother watched from the doorway with tears in her eyes.  She knew why Sherlock was there and knew her remaining time with the girls was very short. 

“Please, Sherlock.  We don’t want to leave Didus and Babusya!” Anichka pleaded.

“Please let us stay here!  I know you can do it!” Ionna pleaded.

“Girls.” His father spoke softly from the doorway.  “There is nothing Sherlock can do.  Don’t burden him.”

Sherlock looked up at his mother.  Her eyes were filled with tears, and she simply shook her head at Sherlock in an “I can’t believe you’ve done this to us” type of way.  She turned and walked back into the house.

“I don’t want to go back!” Anichka yelled, “I don’t know those people!  Ionna is my sister.  She is!  She is!”

“Please, Sherlock.”  Ionna pleaded.

Sherlock firmly held Ionna’s face in his hands.  She could not stop crying, and she repeated endlessly, “Please-please-please-please-please…”  They were the words of someone who was clinging to the last thread of hope.  All her dreams were crumbling.

_You are strong, Ionna, and you must show the world how strong you are._

“Please, Sherlock.  Please-please-please-no.” She broke down, collapsing onto him.  “She’s my sister!  Don’t let them take her away from me!”

 _You and Anichka will always be sisters._ He assured Ionna. His own English suddenly failed him and he lapsed into Ukrainian. _You can Skype each other every day.  You can visit each other on holidays.  You’ll soon be with Raisa.  You will keep writing your book.  You will be fine.  It will all be fine, my darling._

He didn’t embrace her as he once had.  He would leave that sort of comfort to his parents.  He patted and rubbed her back a little, gave her a bit of the “chin up” pep talk that felt hollow and contrite.

 _Liar!_ Anichka screamed tearfully as she rained her fists down on him.  _I hate you! I hate you!_ She ripped into his soul with a string of swear words, but the worst was said after.  _Why did you rescue us?  We could be in Heaven with Mama! I wish we were dead!_

His father tried to gently restrain Anichka but the child pulled away and ran back into the house and upstairs to her room.  Within moments the house was filled with the sounds of destruction, and everyone rushed back inside.

Anichka was in the process of smashing the large Barbie doll house.  She then pulled all the blankets and sheets off the bed, screaming angrily at his parents as they approached her.  “Anichka.  Anichka.” Mrs. Holmes said softly.

Anichka was about to smash her Ipad but Mr. Holmes grabbed her firmly and restrained her much in the way he had restrained Sherlock during some of Sherlock’s autistic tantrums. He crossed her arms over her chest and held her in a straight-jacket hold.  He was glad his hearing had diminished some with age because her screams were piercing.  Mrs. Holmes winced and tried to hold the girl’s face.  “Anichka.  Anichka. Stop, child.  Please stop.”  Nevertheless she screamed a few more times.

Sherlock wanted to rush in and take her into his arms to soothe her, but he suddenly knew his place, and his place was to stand back and offer support to his parents and the girls but not to interfere in any way, even while living the reality of his own dreams and plans shattering before his eyes.  He was gutted, but he kept his emotions in check.  Barely.

He stayed the night.  He tried to read to the girls but they were no longer interested.  The girls  barely left each other, both easily overcome to tears again without any provocation.  He kept vigil overnight, concerned that perhaps Anichka might do self-harm.  He even went so far as to hide all the sharp knives.

When the diplomatic car arrived with the ambassador early the following morning, the girls were dressed and packed, both still crying.  The girls hugged Sherlock briefly, and he smiled to them and winked with more of the “chin up” encouragement, and he watched the car drive away until he could see it no more.  Dreams shattered.  Dreams destroyed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clinic that Ford refers to is The Gerson Institute. They have been curing cancer naturally since the 1930s. I have visited there. I have seen it with my own eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock sat alone in almost complete darkness.  Only the fire from the hearth flickered an orange glow onto him.  He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown as if he’d been in them for days, and he was unshaven and unkempt.  His hands were steepled beneath his chin.  He could enter his mind palace with either his eyes open or closed.  It made no matter, and how long he’d been in the trance-like state he did not know, but the tea in his cup showed an evaporation line, and the tea in the pot on the table beside him had long grown cold.  Occasionally he would blink, and a tear will spill from each eye and burn a trail down his cheeks.  He didn’t brush them away.  He didn’t seem to notice.  However, there would follow the slightest sigh as he would close his eyes, take a deep, cleansing breath, and then open them again, still somewhere in his mind palace.

He didn’t want company.  He didn’t want comfort.  He didn’t want anything from anyone.  What he wanted was to reset the clock back to the days when he’d first met John.  It wasn’t that he longed to have John in the apartment again.  No, he had grown quite accustomed to having 221B all to himself and rather liked it.  What he wanted was to reset himself to how he was when he first met John.  The days when he didn’t allow so many emotions and feelings to persuade him.  He wanted to go back to the days when it was all about the mind and not the transport.  His transport had become needy and distracting, but worst of all, his heart had run amok and had to be brought back into line, encased behind closed doors and carefully guarded at all times.  He’d let things slide with his heart and was now paying the heavy, painful price. 

That is why the days when he first met John were now so eagerly longed for.  He had no emotional attachments then.  It was all about the work, all about the game of solving the next crime.  Somehow he’d lost sight of the game aspect.  Maybe it was that he simply had matured a bit and his once youthful exuberance now seemed ill-fitting for a man his age.

He severely scolded himself for becoming attached to Ionna and Anichka, once again believing that somehow the universe saw him as unfit father material and had conspired to keep him for that aspect of life. He blinked again and a new set of tears rolled down his cheeks.  Those thoughts hurt deeply, but he had no one to blame but himself.  His one saving grace, he felt, was that he had never mentioned to them that he had wanted to adopt them.  Now it all seemed so terribly imprudent.  What had he been thinking?  It would never have worked.  He was ill-prepared for the responsibilities of fatherhood even though he had been mentally working out the details.  But no.  It had all been foolishness, and he was angry with himself for letting his own emotions take him that far down a path of what would be unfulfillment. 

Then there was the issue of Molly.  Had he let their relationship go too far as well?  She made his transport needy and wanting.  She occupied his thoughts every few minutes.  It was a distraction, and perhaps he’d let that distraction go on for far too long.  He needed to bring his transport back into complete control, if that was possible.  He had managed to go for all of his life without a relationship like he had with her.  Surely he could go back to a life without that intimacy.  Surely he could shut down that part of himself again. Relationships of that depth were over-rated. Another set of tears rolled down his cheeks, but he blinked a few times, coming out of his mind palace for a moment to wipe them away before steepling his hands beneath his chin again and returning to his mind palace.  Separating from Molly was not an issue he wanted to deal with.  He was at a weak moment, he knew, and he didn’t want to make a decision he might regret.  Nevertheless he shuddered a gasp, and tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes and down his unshaven face. 

He didn’t want to feel anything, but the problem was that he _did_ feel, and it hurt, and he didn’t know how to rein it back in now that it was strangling his heart.  He tried to tell himself to get control of the pain, but the more he thought about it, the more it hurt.

There had been a time when he didn’t want the traditional things in life that most other people enjoyed: a wife, children, a home with a dog, but he would have let the girls have a dog.  He had allowed his mind to dwell on those things until he had convinced himself that he did want them, but now he was ready to walk away from all of it and retire to the home he’d been building in the country, Sparrow’s Nest.  He could afford to retire.  He could just shut himself away and devote himself to his personal interests..  He preferred to be mostly alone anyhow.  People were distracting.  Relationships.  He didn’t need them.  That thought was painful too, and he gasped, his breathing suddenly rapid.  More tears.  His mind palace was not proving to be an effective escape.  Its reorganization wasn’t working.  He thought he could simply compartmentalize everything neatly, and resume his life almost as if nothing had happened, but he discovered that he could not.

But the question of children and fatherhood weighed heavily on his heart.  Although he had assumed that at some point in his relationship with Molly that children would be a natural course of life, fatherhood had never truly interested him until Anichka and Ionna.  The girls had stirred paternal feelings he wasn’t aware he was harboring, and now that he had experienced those feelings and emotions, he wasn’t certain he could compartmentalize them into storage within his mind palace.    He wondered, however, if the feelings were truly paternal or if they were simply his strong desire to protect and find justice.  Had he confused the two?  He winced at the thought.

He had been slightly lax in his efforts to find the man responsible for the girls’ abuse in the U.K., having left the more unpleasant tasks to Scotland Yard’s team, but they were being too slow for his liking, and he was going to have a word with Lestrade.  This case needed to be cracked wide open even if they had to search house by house. No, that was an absurd thought, but he had a renewed determination to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice, with or without the assistance of Scotland Yard.  It meant, among other things, that he would have to delve into the unseemly world of child sexual exploitation, a world he preferred not to touch. It turned his stomach.  It was part of the reason he spent little time looking at adult porn on the internet.  Any adult site was only a few clicks away to the darker, sadistic side of sexual titillation that eventually would lead to snuff films, the worst kind of BDSM, bestiality, and child pornography.  It was a darkness he didn’t need or want in his life, but every porn site had tendrils of links to all the others.  Like a giant spider web.  Cut down one part and it will be rebuilt in the morning somewhere else.  Adult porn didn’t titillate him, but before he had begun an intimate relationship with Molly, he occasionally viewed small scraps of porn just to review the mechanics of what he wasn’t partaking in.  He found porn to be quite boring and fake.

Child pornography, on the other hand, absolutely turned his stomach.  Any child sexual abuse or child abuse in general was abhorrent to him.  He truly hated people who inflicted harm on children, and he was afraid his own sense of justice might have murderous, vigilante consequences.  He could easily envision his hands crushing the man’s windpipe who had abused Anichka and Ionna or bashing his head until his skull cracked.

He took a deep breath to calm himself as another set of tears rolled effortlessly down his cheeks.  His heart was beating rapidly now, and he had to quiet it.  He had to quiet the emotional pain he felt or it threatened to overwhelm him.  He was so close to the precipice of weeping, and he had to mentally walk back from the edge.  That kind of emotional release would only drain him for the remainder of the day, and he didn’t want that.

There was also the business with Ford.  Mycroft had said not to get involved, but Sherlock had done exactly the opposite.  He’d become overly involved even to the point of giving his own blood to his half-brother.  He liked Ford a lot, but Ford would likely die before the end of the following year, and he would lose a brother that he’d grown to care about.  _Caring._   Why had he allowed himself to nurture that trait in even the slightest way?

He heard the slow footsteps coming up the stairs outside of his flat.  The third step from the top always creaked, and he heard the telltale creak.  The doors to his flat were locked, however, and he had told Mrs. Hudson that under no circumstance was he to be disturbed and that he absolutely wanted no visitors including her.  He had turned off his cell phone and hadn’t looked at his computer.  He heard a key slide into the lock and turn, and then the door swung open.  It also had a little creak.

“Come to gloat at the spectacle?” Sherlock asked quietly.  He knew who it was just by the sound and weight of the footsteps.

Mycroft shut the door and returned the room to mostly darkness. “You don’t answer your phone or your computer for three days.  Mummy was worried.”

“Or you just wanted to pry.” Sherlock said.

“A simple thank you would suffice.”

“What for?”

Mycroft set a package of takeaway fish and chips in Sherlock’s lap and then walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light.  Sherlock squinted in the light and shielded his eyes as Mycroft put the kettle on and within a few minutes had wordlessly made fresh tea for them.  He made no comment about the disarray in the kitchen but found a couple of clean cups, and after removing Sherlock’s dirty cup and cold pot of tea, he refreshed the tea and set the service down beside Sherlock’s chair.  He then turned off the kitchen light and settled into John’s chair with a fresh cup of tea.  The two brothers sat quietly in front of the fire for several minutes.

There was a silent understanding between them.   Although Mycroft would never admit it, it always hurt a bit to lose an agent in the line of duty or to treason, and so he did understand loss although he had no emotional attachment to any of the agents.  They were pawns in a game and he moved them about on the chess board of international politics, but sometimes he or they made the wrong move and then there was loss.  But he carried on, and he only wanted Sherlock to find that strength to pick himself up and carry on again too. 

“I’m truly sorry about the girls, Sherlock.  I know you had grown fond of them.” He finally broke the silence. “As I mentioned, immigration is not my area.  Under the circumstances, there was nothing I could do.”

Sherlock shook head slightly and rolled his eyes.  He didn’t believe Mycroft for one moment.  Mycroft may have been able to speak with the smooth oratory of a diplomat, but Sherlock always knew when he wasn’t being entirely truthful.  He sipped his tea, the first sustenance he had taken in over twenty-four hours.  He was thirsty and had been ignoring his body’s need for fluids.  He couldn’t even remember when he’d last got up to use the toilet.

Mycroft had made the tea exactly the way Sherlock liked it, and he’d brought fish and chips from the place on Marylebone Road where he knew Sherlock frequented.  He did not want to offer anything contrite in conversation even though Sherlock was anticipating something like the old “caring is not an advantage.”  Mycroft could see that Sherlock was hurting deeply, and there was no point in rubbing salt into the wound. Sherlock would not let Mycroft see his actual tears although he knew Mycroft had already deduced them. 

“One day, perhaps, you and Molly will have your own offspring.”

“I may have biological progeny already,” Sherlock quipped dismissively.  He still wouldn’t look at Mycroft, but Mycroft immediately understood.

“Donated sperm during your university days for a little income. How altruistic.” Mycroft said.

Sherlock shrugged. “Paid for new science equipment.”

“And drugs.”

“That too.”

“Ever worry that one of them might show up on your doorstep?”

“Nope.  I donated under your name.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and muttered, “Git.”

Sherlock took a bite of battered fish.  It was still very warm, but the chips were losing their crispyness already.  Nevertheless he began to eat, and once he started, he didn’t stop until the entire takeaway was gone.  His transport was sated, and his mind began to rev its engines on the fuel.

They continued in silence for several more minutes.  Mycroft turned up the gas fire which sent a burst of flame up the chimney, giving a flash of extra light into the room.

“Ford is dying.” Sherlock finally said as Mycroft sat back in John’s chair again. “He mentioned a clinic in Mexico that could help him, but they have a waiting list.”

“And you’re wondering if I can manipulate strings to get him in.”

“He deserves the best chance he can get.”

“Even if there was a way for me to be involved, wouldn’t you be wondering why I could do that but not help with immigration issues?” Mycroft asked quietly.  “I did make enquires, Sherlock, but the powers that be were searching for living relatives to take them as they couldn’t be legally adopted until that issue was resolved.   Had relatives not been found to take them they would have been granted asylum, and you could have started the paperwork.”

“What’s done is done.” Sherlock said bitterly.  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t meant to be for the future, brother.” Mycroft said.  He looked at his watch and got up quietly. “Back to work for me.”  He headed towards the door, picked up his coat and umbrella. “Send me the details of the clinic.  I’ll see if anything can be arranged.” Mycroft said quietly as he left the flat, shut the door and then locked it.

Sherlock continued to stare into the fire, but then he blinked rapidly.  The fog and the darkness that had been torturing his soul and had been whispering the hurtful ideas were suddenly lifted.

Although he would not be directly involved with Ionna and Anichka, they knew his email address and website and knew how to contact him, but he also knew that he needed to step back now and let them settle into their new lives in the Ukraine.  Dzubenko could furnish reports on them now and then.  He didn’t really expect to hear much from the girls, but he hoped he would.  He hoped he could always remain a small part of their lives, perhaps like a very distant uncle.  He hoped they knew that he would always be their friend.  However, he wanted only the best for them, and if that meant bowing out of their lives completely, then he would do that.  Time would tell his role.  For that moment, however, he would stay well back and out of the way.

He knew there wasn’t a way to reset his life back to the way it was before John.  He simply wasn’t the same man anymore.  He seemed to walk a little taller.  Perhaps it was ego or perhaps it was just confidence from years of affirmation that he actually _was_ good at what he did.  He had several requests in his email inbox for speaking engagements similar to the one he presented in the Ukraine.  He didn’t mind teaching, but he needed it to be in a more intimate setting where he could teach a few how to see _and_ observe.

There she was in his mind again.  He didn’t like the constant separation and yet he also relished his privacy.  Whereas it had only been less than two weeks since he had serenaded her at Bart’s, it felt as if it had been a lifetime ago.  He hadn’t seen her since that night.  They had barely communicated at all as he had dealt with Ford and then the crisis with the girls.  He picked up his phone and turned it on.  There were several text messages from her mostly inquiring if he was all right.  He did not feel up to answering her even then. He didn’t feel up to much of anything, and the fish and chips felt like lead weight in his stomach.  He was going to have to take that off his diet for a while.   Even so, he knew he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to see her.  He hadn’t told her of his desire to adopt the girls, and now he felt unlikely that he ever would.  Perhaps she wouldn’t understand anyhow, and it might only confuse her.  He hated keeping secrets from her, but over the course of their relationship, it would not be the only one. 

Molly texted him again. 

DINNER TONIGHT?  EXCHANGE GIFTS? MH

Christmas presents.  Sherlock had nearly forgotten his for her. 

COME TO BAKER STREET AFTER WORK.  I’LL ARRANGE DINNER. SH

What he needed more than anything was to return to work - if he could make himself get out of his chair, and that was no easy task after sitting for so long.  He groaned as he pushed himself up.  His hip joints and spine had stiffened from being immobile for so long, and he was aware of needing a chiropractic adjustment.  A hot shower and a shave made him feel almost back to his normal self, and it wasn’t long before he was out the door, hailing a cab and off to Scotland Yard.  On the way, however, he texted Mycroft.

THANK YOU.  SH.

He knew Mycroft wouldn’t respond to that.  It was another bit of understanding they had between them:  not everything deserved a response, and nothing was read into not receiving a response. 

He also stopped by the jewelers to pick up the piece of jewelry he’d had custom-made for her.  He inspected its quality with his own loop, and satisfied with the product, he paid for it and pocketed the jeweler’s box inside his Belstaff.

He was forced to wait for nearly thirty minutes at NSY while Lestrade finished a meeting.  Although he had fairly unrestricted access throughout NSY, he preferred to have Lestrade accompany him so that he looked more “official.”  Although Sherlock had no authority there, officers and detectives generally made little to no small talk when he was about, and any personal work was instantly put aside in favor of real work.  Sherlock had a a somewhat annoying reputation of making off-hand deductions when he was particularly aggravated by uninteresting conversation or by people missing obvious details.  People generally avoided eye-contact with him.  Any fool brave enough to engage him in conversation was quickly put in his place within seconds.  Occasionally, however, someone would bring him a cup of coffee.  The coffee was generally not to his liking, but he would accept it even if he didn’t drink it.

Lestrade came out of his meeting looking a bit brow-beaten and meeting-weary.   He hated long meetings and was itching to get out into the field.  His own coffee had grown cold.  “I need some air.” He said. “Let’s take a walk.”  That was also code for “I need a cigarette.”

Once outside, Lestrade lit his cigarette and offered one to Sherlock who declined.  “Back on the patch?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shook his head.  “Nope.  Just quit, that’s all.  So, what was all that about?”

“Maddening case that’s taking a bit too long.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I don’t actually call you on every case I get, Sherlock.  I am quite capable of doing my job, believe it or not.  I was doing it before you came along, and I’ll be doing it after you retire.”Lestrade said sharply.  “And what the hell are you doing here anyhow?  I didn’t call for you.  It’s not like you to make an unannounced visit.”

“I’ve been a bit slow on one of my cases as well.  Well, your people, actually.  Should have been solved by now, pervert apprehended and incarcerated.”

Lestrade exhaled deeply, and wind shifted, blowing it onto Sherlock.  “Yeah, I heard about the Ukranian girls being returned to their country.  Maybe now you want to look at the film?”

“Not really, but there has to be some justice in this case.  I owe it to them.  Your people can’t seem to find him, so I need to step in and finish this.”

“Fine, but whatever you discover, you do not go off on your own after him.  Do you understand?  We work together.” Lestrade took another drag on his cigarette and looked Sherlock squarely in the eyes.  “I hope you do find him, Sherlock.  We do think he’s still in the U.K.  He hasn’t been spotted trying to go through customs.”

“Name?”

Lestrade shook his head and shrugged. “But he has surfaced in other child porn videos, so he’s apparently quite active. It’s an underground world, Sherlock, but it’s not a network.”

“But someone is supplying him with children, so he’s dealing with traffickers or is trafficking himself.  What about the fellow caught with the Pakistani girls?”

“It’s not like these guys hang out at the pub together.”  He finished his cigarette, dropped the butt into his disposable coffee cup and dropped the whole thing into a waste bin.  “You sure you want to look at the film?  You remember what happened  just hearing about it for the first time.  What is seen cannot be unseen.”

“Of course I don’t _want_ to see it.” Sherlock said bitterly.  “But your lot has apparently missed something.”

Lestrade set Sherlock up in a private office with a computer.  He handed Sherlock a DVD and said, “We downloaded what we could find of him in action on here.  I’ve only seen a bit of it.  A bit was enough. The Ukrainian girls are on here.  You might want to turn the volume to low.”

He emerged an hour later.  He was sober, and his eyes were red as if he’d been crying although he showed no signs of tears at the moment.   Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “You all right?”

Sherlock simply handed him the DVD and walked out without a word or even looking at Lestrade.  He walked without being entirely aware of his surroundings and not exactly sure where he was going.

He had a bolt hole he rarely used.  Big Ben was not his favorite bolt hole because of the noise of the chimes, but he found himself there behind the clock face where he waited for the hands to move into the hour position, which was only moments away.  He  was already pulling off his Belstaff and scarf when he entered the chamber behind the clock face.  He dropped his coat, scarf, and jacket  haphazardly on the floor.  He unbuttoned his shirt and cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. As the bells began to strike for the hour, he braced himself against the wall and began to scream out his anguish and agony in the safety of the deafening chimes.  Every sinew in his neck, arms and chest was taught, his fists clenched.  He had seen things he had never wanted to see, and he felt rage as the images tormented his heart and soul.  He screamed until he wasn’t certain he was screaming anymore, and as soon as the noon hour chimes stopped, so did he.  He staggered a bit after the release of so much energy, then sank down against the inner wall and finally let himself step off the emotional precipice that he had denied himself earlier.  He wept for his loss of the girls.  He wept for the horror he’d seen them undergo on the DVD, and he even wept for the half brother that he knew would not be in his life for very long.  He also wept from dashed dreams for a life he felt he could only observe and never have, but mostly he wept over what the girls had endured as whatever paternal instinct he had took on a deep grief.  In some way, they would always be his girls.

But he could not allow himself to wallow in his disappointments.  There was work to be done to catch the perpetrator, but now he was too drained to do it.  He made his way out of the clock tower and back down to the street, hardly noticing the biting January cold.  He hailed a cab and returned to 221B Baker Street.  In that short space of time inside the clock tower he had screamed his throat sore and hoarse, and he was ready to collapse.  He wasn’t certain when he had slept last, but now he couldn’t avoid it.  He had barely got his coat and jacket off before his head hit the pillow and he was instantly dreaming.

Hot, sweet breath on his face.  He could not open his eyes.  He felt drugged. Something soft touched his head and stroked his curls, and soft lips pressed gently to his temple.  He knew those lips well. Molly. 

“Sleepyhead.  Did you forget to order dinner?” her voice was soft and sweet.

What followed next, however, was completely unexpected.  A lick to his cheek.  Several licks.  He startled completely awake to find himself confronted with an Irish Setter puppy in his bed.  He sat up quickly. “What the hell?”

Molly sat down beside him and gave him a quick kiss.  “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“You got me a dog?”

“Purebred. Reputable breeder.  She could be a show dog.” Molly said.  “She likes you already.”

The puppy tried to crawl into Sherlock’s lap but he picked it up and petted it briefly, then sniffed its breath.  “Ah puppy breath. Nothing sweeter.”  He liked dogs and never hesitated to be friendly to dogs of clients.  Generally he preferred the dogs to the clients.  Dogs, at least, were always honest. The puppy licked his chin, and he immediately held it at arms’ length as if it were an infant with a smelly nappy.  He then put it in Molly’s lap.  “Charming, Molly, but no.  No dog.”

“What’s wrong with your voice?  You sound like you’ve got a touch of laryngitis.”

“I’m fine.” He insisted.  “This… this puppy thing, however, is not.”

“No, it’ll be great, and I’ll help you with her.” Molly insisted gently.  She was certain she would win him over to the idea.

“Her.  Of course it would be female.” Sherlock nearly glowered. His heart was too hard to have a male child or even a male dog.  He could hear his mother’s voice.

Molly put the puppy into his lap and put her arm around Sherlock.  “She can be our dog.  Look how cute she is.  I was thinking maybe we could call her Scarlett.”

Sherlock moved the dog back to Molly’s lap and stood up.  “Our dog.  Like you had a dog with Mr. Meat Dagger?  No, Molly.  I appreciate your sentiment and wanting to move things along between us, but if I wanted a dog, I would have a dog. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to take her back.” 

“Sherlock—“ she started.

“This is not open for discussion.  Take her back.  I am not having a dog. _We_ are not having a dog. Whatever got into your head to make you think that was a good idea without bothering to ask me?”

She was a little taken aback by his abruptness on the matter.  “Well, you certainly woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

He knew he was reacting badly but could not seem to make himself stop.  What was she trying to tell him?  That she wanted to start a family?  That having a dog would be a first step towards that?  Maybe she was telling him she was pregnant.  He looked her over.  She hadn’t gained weight, well not yet at least.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, and then she realized and stood up and faced him squarely.  “No, I’m not pregnant, you git.  What the hell is wrong with you?”  There were tears in her eyes.  She gently picked up the puppy and tucked her under her arm.  “You’re right, it was a bad idea.  In fact, this whole evening was a bad idea.  I don’t know what I was thinking except maybe as she grew older you would find her a useful aid in your work.  Stupid, stupid idea.  Maybe if I hurry I can get her back to the breeder tonight.” She walked out of his bedroom, grabbed up her coat and purse and began to leave.

“Molly—“ he started after her.

“Oh, and thanks for no dinner.” She said as she walked out the door.

He knew he should go after her, but he didn’t.  He had reacted badly, and he had no real excuse for it, and yet he felt the proper words would escape him anyhow.

He arrived at her flat a few hours later, having given her sufficient time to return the puppy to the breeder.  He could have opened the door with his own key, but under the circumstances he felt it was best if she invited him.  He had been “a bit not good” and knew it and needed to make amends. He knocked firmly.  “Molly, please let me in.” he said as he leaned his brow against her door.  “I’m sorry.  I was wrong.  Well, not about the dog.  I just behaved badly, and I’m sorry.  Please forgive me.”  He knocked again.  “Molly, please.”

There was no response from the other side of the door, and he suspected she was giving him the silent treatment.  He sighed deeply with resignation.  He deserved her silence.

“What are you going on about?” her voice was suddenly behind him.  She had obviously just come back from her errand to return the puppy to the breeder.  She had a bag of takeaway in one hand.

“I’m sorry about dinner.” He said.

“I figured you’d show up, so I got enough for two.  It’s dim sum.”

“Chinese.  Always a good choice.”

There was awkward silence between them, and then he fished his copy of her apartment key out of his pocket and opened the door.

He still wouldn’t tell her about the desire he’d had to adopt the girls, but he did make profuse apologies for his behavior over the dog as they ate their dim sum on her sofa. “It isn’t that I don’t someday want a dog with you, and the Irish Setter is a loyal, loving breed, although I am equally fond of Labradors, especially the chocolate labs—“

“Sherlock.” Molly cut him off.  He was off on a tangent.

“Right.  Sorry.  It’s just that at this time in my life it is impractical with my lifestyle, and I think you know the responsibility is impractical for yours too.  We’re not at a place in our relationship where we should be getting a shared animal.  We will be someday.  The dog was a lovely thought, however.”  The real truth was that it was far too soon after losing the girls, and he wasn’t looking for a substitute.  It wasn’t Molly’s fault that the timing was off.  He likely would have been more receptive had he either adopted the girls or had never met them at all.

“I should have asked.  Sorry.” She said. “I’m not trying to rush things between us, but now I don’t really have a Christmas present for you.”

“Never necessary.” He said.  “Oh!” He gasped suddenly, set his food aside and popped off the sofa.  He fetched the jeweler’s box from his Belstaff and returned to the sofa and handed it to her.  “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.”

The box was larger than a ring box, so knew immediately that it wasn’t a ring, and she assumed it was a necklace of some sort.  She opened the box.  It was a necklace with a zigzag pattern that was studded with little diamonds.  “This pattern looks like a heartbeat.”

“That’s my heartbeat from my EKG.”

“Oh!” she gasped.

He wrinkled his nose.  “Too medical?”

She leaned forward and kissed him sweetly. “It’s wonderful.  I love it.  I would say you were perhaps a little excited when your EKG was done, though.”

He winked at her. He put it on her and smiled at it and the way the gold and diamonds sparkled against her skin, and he kissed her sweetly.  “Molly, I want to stay the night, but I don’t want to have sex.” He said quietly.  “But my lack of desire has nothing to do with you.  It is truly about me and only me.”  He didn’t feel he could adequately explain his lack of desire after seeing the DVD earlier in the day.  He didn’t think he could make love to her without the images haunting his mind.  He needed to be further away from them, but he needed Molly that night.

While they generally made love every time they spent the night together, there were a few occasions when they did not.  He usually made up for it the following time they were together, but on this night she slept curled up under his arm with her arm across his chest or he spooned behind her and held her close like a security blanket.  She had come to ground him in his life, and when his world was slightly off-kilter, he depended on her stability to anchor him. 

She wore his necklace to bed, and she would often wear it, even to work.  If anyone asked about it, she simply said it was a Christmas gift.  Had she known how much Sherlock actually spent on its creation, however, she probably would have put it into a safety deposit box.

When they awoke in the morning, he was on his back and she was once again curled at his side.  He had slept in fitful intervals, his dreams haunted by the images from the DVD. Although he had been mostly disturbed by the images of Ionna and Anichka, there were other young girls and even a few boys who had endured the same fate from the same man.  He didn’t know if he would ever be able to successfully delete the images from his mind although he would try once the case was over.  In the meantime he was completely put off by sex.

Molly stretched and groaned a little, then patted his chest.  He pulled her in closer.  “Good morning.”  His voice croaked hoarsely, and he cleared his throat but without any affect on the hoarseness. 

“Sounds like you have a bit of laryngitis after all. Are you coming down with something?” She asked.

“Just strained it yesterday, that’s all.” He insisted.

“I’m going to make you some tea with lemon, and I want you to rest your voice today.” She said as she sat up.  She got out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and padded out of the bedroom and into her kitchen where he heard her turn on the kettle.   

He followed her in a moment wearing only his pyjama bottoms, and he wrapped his arms around her from behind.  “Thank you for last night.” He said quietly.

“For what?  I didn’t do anything.”

“You did more than you know.” He said, and he moved her hair aside and placed a lingering kiss on the back of her neck that sent a jolt of pleasure through her.

She turned and wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his chest.  “Will you be coming back tonight?”

It felt so comfortable, so natural to have her there in his arms.  It was positively domestic.  His mind had been allowed to fantasize about domesticity when he had considered adoption.  He’d even imagined Molly in the mix, seeing the girls off to school, helping with their schoolwork, taking them shopping and doing girl things together. Now there was just Molly, but somehow it still felt right. “Don’t think so.  I have a case I need to finish, bring a perpetrator to justice.  I won’t stop until I have my hands around his throat, until I’m crushing the life out of him.”

“You do what you need to do.” She said. “Just try to keep yourself out of jail when you’re doing it."

He smiled a little at the idea and then asked, “How’s your research for your lecture?”

“All finished and put together.” She said.  “There’s going to be a banquet. A bit formal. Lots of biggies in medicine will be there.  I like you to go as my guest.”

He startled at the thought just as the kettle announced that it was ready. “You know I don’t do crowds.”

“Mike Stamford will be there.”

“John and Mary?”

“Sorry, I only get one invite.” She said.  “I’ll text you the date.  Put it in your calendar please.”

“Perhaps I’ll get very lucky and there will be a murder that day.” He said with a sigh and rolled eyes.

“Prat.”

Two weeks later Sherlock watched through one-way glass as the man involved with crimes against the Pakistani “dead girls” was brought into the room from the other side.  He was already shackled, but he was handcuffed on both sides to an interrogation chair.  The officers who let him in left the room the way they came and left him completely alone.

“His name is Eugene Hall.  He’s been thoroughly interrogated several times with the same results.”

“And now it’s my turn, and now it will get done properly.” Sherlock said curtly, his hands clasped behind his back.  He stood ramrod straight.

“He worked international trade until a couple of years ago.  Now calls himself a filmmaker, the bastard.  His wife didn’t know anything about his other activities  and is naturally quite horrified.  She’s filed for divorce.” 

“Too much information.” Sherlock said.  Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off of Eugene Hall.

“Just remember you’re not allowed to threaten him with bodily harm or actually do bodily harm to him.  You probably should just stay on your side of the table.  And remember, Sherlock, I’ll be listening to everything, and I will stop the interrogation if you cross the line.  So don’t make me regret this or I will bloody well make you regret it.”

“I’ll just put the fear of God into him.”

“You don’t believe in God.”

“He might not either, but he will believe in the Devil when I’m done with him.”

Sherlock turned off the lights in the interrogation room, and the lights in the observation room were also turned off so that no light would enter the interrogation room when Sherlock entered.  Sherlock stepped into the room.  There was nearly four feet of clearance all the way around the table, and Sherlock only needed to feel the wall for guidance as he stepped.  The only sound was Sherlock’s crisp steps, like a little click.  Deliberate, slow. 

“I already told them everything I know." 

"Oh, websites and buyers.  Mundane.  Easy enough to get off your computer.  But you know more, don't you? Where did you get the girls from, Eugene?"

"You can't interrogate my without my solicitor present." Eugene said firmly.

Sherlock lowered his voice to an almost ghostly quality.  It was ethereal and yet animalistic aided by his laryngitis. “That has proven unproductive, Eugene Hall.” Sherlock stopped directly behind him, leaned close and hissed, “Now you deal with me.”

Sherlock slapped his hand down on one side of the table by Eugene, then on the other.  The slaps made a terrible bang as the table was metal.  Sherlock allowed the reverberations to completely still, and complete silence fell in the room again.  Sherlock began pacing the room again.  Only the clicking of his shoes on the cement floor could be heard.

“I understand you’ve entered a plea of not guilty, but we both know that’s not true since I caught you in the act .  Neither, might I add, are you the suspect or the alleged suspect.  You are indeed the perpetrator of the crimes against the Pakistani girls, so let’s not waste my time in semantics, and don’t bother speaking unless I ask you to.  Personally I think all child sex offenders should be castrated, but in your case I think it should be done without anesthetic and with a very dull knife by the parents of the victims.  And afterwards, while you were still bleeding profusely, you should be thrown into a tank of piranhas.  Ever seen a piranha feed, Eugene Hall?  They bite the flesh, then twist their bodies quickly and pull out a perfect little chunk of flesh in the blink of an eye.  They can strip a carcass in a matter of minutes.  They have a piranha tank at the London zoo.  Perhaps you’d like to make a donation.  You won’t be needing those parts of your body anymore.”

Sherlock slammed his hand down on the table and Eugene jumped at the loud noise.

Sherlock leaned close to Eugene and whispered in his ear, “You do know that although technically Britain doesn’t resort to capital punishment, we do still allow the death penalty in other creative ways.  One is to leak the information of what you have done to the other prisoners and let them take you out, and trust me, they will take you out, but it will be reported as a suicide.”

There was a tap on the glass.  It was a warning from the other side.

The lights suddenly came on but they were super bright.  Sherlock, however, had already donned a pair of sunglasses while Eugene squinted painfully.  On the table in front of him were pictures of Ionna and Anichka’s perpetrator.  The girls were in the pictures with him although their faces and genitals were blurred.  “Who is he?” Sherlock demanded, his hand banging down on the table again. 

“I don’t know!” Eugene insisted.

The room was plunged into darkness again.  Now Sherlock paced but there was an additional different sound.  The sound of his riding crop slicing the air.

“Don’t even bother to use any kind of story in the courts about suffering an abusive childhood.  Woe is you. You did not.    You did the things you did out of the deep and perverted evil in your heart.”

WHACK! The whip made contact with the metal table. Then again and again.  The sound was frightening and deafening.

“Stop!” Eugene screamed.

The bright lights suddenly went on again, and Sherlock was still in his sunglasses.

“I want a name!” Sherlock demanded again.

“I don’t know!  I swear!”

The lights went off again, and the riding crop landed on the table again.

“Stop!  Stop!” Eugene screamed again.

Sherlock did stop for moment, and Eugene’s fearful breathing filled the darkness. “Do you know what a millstone is, Eugene? Do you know how heavy it is?  There’s a verse in the Gospel of Luke that says, _‘it would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea, than that he would cause one of these little ones to stumble_.’ Imagine being thrown into the deepest part of the ocean and sinking so rapidly that your body would implode before you reached the bottom two miles down.”

WHACK! The riding crop hit the table again.  Then again.

“I don’t know who he is!  Stop it!  Stop it!” he screamed again.

The bright lights came on again, and Eugene was sweating and shaking.  “I don’t know.  I swear.  But—“

Sherlock held up his hand signaling for the lights to stay on.

“Finish your sentence.  But what?”

“But I think I’ve seen those girls before.” He said.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice grew dark, and he suddenly leaned across the table. “If I find out you ever touched them—“

“I didn’t want them!” he insisted.  “I had the other girls.  I didn’t have time for more.”

“Who showed them to you?” Sherlock snarled.

"I don't know his real name.  He's just called Father or Papa.  We all call him that.  We don't contact him.  He contacts us every three weeks. We pick up the kids at night.  Never see him. Just some guy with a mask.  Like those anonymous guys. Don't know his real name or phone number!"

Sherlock was about to lunge across the table and throttle Eugene, but Lestrade opened the door at that point.  The interrogation had gone on long enough, and Sherlock was clearly too riled to continue safely.  Lestrade indicated that Sherlock needed to step out of the room, and Sherlock hesitated, then walked out.  When Lestrade closed the door behind him, Sherlock sighed tersely.  "It's not all about deduction, Detective Inspector.  Sometimes it's about pressure points and legwork."

“I don’t know if Scotland Yard crossed the line with that one.” He said as he shook his head.

“I'm not Scotland Yard." Sherlock said. He cleared his voice.  It was still rough.  "And I just blew open the case by exposing the man at the top of the chain.  I’d call that that progress.”  

“Father or Papa is not much to go on."

"Oh isn't it?" Sherlock asked as he looked at Lestrade, but Lestrade stared back blankly.  Even after all the years of working with Sherlock, he still couldn't put together the pieces that quickly. "You are looking for an older man who is a father-like figure that kids will trust.  Possibly a priest or vicar but clearly someone meant to hold the trust of children.  Obviously a man, but not a young man as those involved including the children would be less likely to call him father or Papa unless by coercion.  Possibly someone involved in a charity involving aid to international children, someone who works with orphanages and has access to children.  You're looking for someone intimately acquainted with international politics, British infrastructure and trans-Atlantic cargo.  Someone with access to pharmaceuticals.  Possibly a doctor. Clearly he's still in business.  He's the supplier, the broker.  Eugene Hall is just a buyer as is the one I am looking for. You have his cell phone.  I suggest you avail yourself of it."

"I need to put together a team and a plan of attack.  You should go home and rest your voice.  I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll go from there.  And Sherlock, thank you.”

Sherlock didn’t feel particularly happy although he was glad to have a break in the case.  He didn’t smile, but he gave Lestrade a slight nod in acknowledgement.

The following morning Sherlock received word that Eugene Hall had hung himself in his prison cell.  That action saved that British taxpayers the cost of a trial, and Sherlock felt that was a satisfactory outcome.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the incredibly long wait. The rest of the book is almost completely written and will all be up by the end of the month. 
> 
> You may want to refresh a bit and go back to chapter 15.

BE READY AT 9:00.  I’LL BE BY TO PICK YOU UP.  GL

Sherlock squinted in the semi-darkness of twilight at the message on his phone.  Then he groaned, not quite ready to start his day. 

YOU KNOW WHO FATHER IS? SH

He suspected Lestrade had no real idea who “Father” was but was simply following up on leads procured during the night.  That meant that Lestrade’s day would be filled with the tedium of going to one location after another, interrogations, more leads, and it would all be like an explosion of information full of debris that Scotland Yard could not decipher.  It was not a day he was looking forward to.  They were too slow.  Always too slow.

WE HAVE SOLID LEADS.  GL

Sherlock rolled his sleepy eyes at the confirmation, then quickly texted John.

LESTRADE WILL BE HERE AT 9.  COME EARLIER.  BRING COFFEE.  AND BISCUITS. YOU KNOW WHAT KIND I  LIKE. SH

A few hours later Sherlock was dressed for the day in anticipation of Lestrade’s arrival, his Belstaff and scarf on, and he sipped his coffee.  John had arrived a few minutes earlier, and he also sipped from the coffee he’d purchased from a local franchise. 

“So this is it then.  We’re going to catch him.” John said.

“Someone will definitely be apprehended.  Likely not the one we’re looking for.” Sherlock said.  “It’s time to end this.”

“But you don’t need me really, not with Lestrade and his team.”

“Nonsense.  We started this case together, and we will end it together.” Sherlock looked down for a moment, then looked John directly in the eyes.  “A lot has happened to me recently, John.  I need you more than you know.”

John didn’t understand the gravity of Sherlock’s words.  “You just need me to keep you from killing this guy when we find him.” 

“Possibly.” Sherlock admitted.

John sipped his coffee.  “Oh, and Mary still hasn’t heard from you about Elizabeth’s birthday party.  Are you coming or not?”

And there it was: John had missed it again, and Sherlock was off the hook for expressing anything more emotional, even though he wanted to share.  That is how it always was between them, however.  He shifted gears immediately. “Baby birthday parties.  Definitely not my area.” 

“You haven’t seen Elizabeth for a while.  She’s toddling all over now.  She’s got a little dolly pram that she likes to move around, but she doesn’t know how to turn it around, so she just goes in one direction and gets stuck and cries until we turn her around. Want to see a recent picture?”  Before Sherlock could protest that it was far too much information, John pulled out his smartphone and began scrolling through pictures.  He stopped on a picture of his grinning 1-yr old, short blond curls and a few front teeth on top and bottom.

Sherlock gave the picture a cursory look.  He actually did want to see her but didn’t want to appear to be fawning over her.  “She really takes after Mary.” 

“She’s got my nose.”

“No.” Sherlock said.  “Maybe your ears.”

“My ears?”

“They’re big.  Always have been. I’m surprised you haven’t learned to fly with them.”

John was taken aback for a moment, but he instinctively touched his ears.  “They are adequately proportioned for my size, and Elizabeth’s ears are perfect too.  Why are you being like this?  You and Molly fighting?  Even on your most annoying days you weren’t like this.”

Sherlock had backed himself into a corner and knew it, and there was little to do but make light of it.  “Just glad to have you back in the thick of things.”

“What’s on the agenda after we’ve caught this bastard?”

‘Closure.” Sherlock said simply, and then his tone softened.  “For me, at least.  I doubt the girls will have closure any time soon.”

“Sorry that adoption thing didn’t work out.  Have you heard from them at all since they returned to the Ukraine?”

He hadn’t heard from them, and he suspected they were settling into their new lives.  He also suspected they were angry with him for not being able to work out a way for them to stay in England.  Perhaps they would never want to speak with him again.  That thought grieved him a little because he felt that in some way they would still always be his girls.  Maybe time would lessen that feeling, but for now the wound of losing them was still too fresh.  He still had Anichka’s drawing on his refrigerator.

Sherlock was about to tell him that he would be taking some time off to deal with family matters, but the door below opened, and they heard Mrs. Hudson greet Lestrade.  Lestrade immediately bounded up the stairs.  “All right then.  Ready?”

“You go ahead.  We have a cab waiting and we’ll follow.” Sherlock said.

Lestrade turned and headed back down the stairs.  Sherlock was the last out, careful to set the alarm before shutting the door.

Sherlock and John got into a waiting cab just outside of 221B Baker Street, and as soon as Sherlock pulled the door closed, he sighed heavily, almost defeated.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” John said quietly.  “Scotland Yard will find him.”

Sherlock looked out the window as the cab began to pull away behind Lestrade’s car.  “They haven’t yet.  Why is this so difficult for them?”

“Maybe they’re overlooking something very obvious.  Maybe it’s an inside job of sorts.  Like we encountered in the Ukraine.  Maybe it’s connected.  Maybe there’s some sort of cover-up within Scotland Yard.  What better way to smuggle in illegals than if you work for the police force?”

None of these thoughts were new to Sherlock.  “That’s why I need you, John.  You always throw out ideas to see what will stick even if they are mostly obvious and mundane.”

“Well, I’d be happy to be of more assistance, but you’ve been keeping mostly to yourself. Family matters.  I understand.” John said.

“Do you?” Sherlock’s voice was cold.

“How is your brother?” John asked.  “The _other_ brother?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before answering.  “Dying.”

“Oh.” That hadn’t been what John was expecting and he immediately became more somber.  “Sorry. If there’s anything I can do…” John looked at Sherlock briefly to try to read him, but Sherlock wouldn’t make eye contact. Sherlock simply raised his hand slightly and shook his head to cease that line of conversation.  The last time John had seen Sherlock affected by death was the Christmas when they thought Irene Adler had died.  Sherlock had kept his emotions mostly to himself then, but John now noticed a slight tremor in the detective’s hands.

“He has a young daughter.  She’s lovely.  She likes me.  I don’t know why.  Perhaps because I resemble her father a bit.”

“Will you be bringing her to England after…after?” John asked quietly.

“No, no.  She’ll go to live with her aunt and uncle outside of Paris.  They are her godparents. Always have been. I’m little more than a blip in her life experiences.”  He was quiet for a moment and then added, “I adore her, John.  She is remarkable.  Did you ever think before you had a child, that you could love a child so much?”

To hear Sherlock use the word “love” in such a context was not something John had ever heard before, and he wasn’t certain how to answer in a way that Sherlock would find satisfactory.  “No.” he finally said.  “You dream and fantasize about it, but it all changes to reality that first time you hold your baby  and you know she’s yours and that you created her. Too sentimental for you?”

Sherlock looked at John briefly and half smiled.  “No, it’s fine.” He understood in his own way.  He didn’t embrace sentiment, but he was no stranger to it either.  

“Maybe someday you and Molly… you know.” John said carefully.

Sherlock cast him a sharp glare.  “I know what?”

“Will have one of your own, mate.”   

Sherlock rolled his eyes a little and turned away to look out the window again, and the two men began a strangely uncomfortable silence that neither completely understood.   Suddenly Sherlock said, “Turn the car around!”

They were in heavy morning traffic in London, however, and reversing direction was not as easy as Sherlock had requested. 

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“We’re going the wrong direction.  We need to go back.”

“To Baker Street?”

“No, John.  West Thurrock.”

It was the site where they had discovered the first dead bodies from human trafficking.  Because of the grisly discovery that had taken precedence over all , Sherlock felt they had spent less time at the site than they should have, and although he felt the actual warehouse would offer no more clues, he wanted to pay a visit to the town.

“If our man is picking up trafficked children, perhaps he has picked them up from there before.  We let the dead bodies and disease distract us the last time.  He’s picked up a lot of children, John.” Sherlock said. 

John immediately understood that Sherlock had seen the evidence.  “And you think that by returning to West Thurrock we might find someone who has seen him?”

“He would have to arrive early.  Couldn’t afford to be late, and likely he would have to wait sometimes.  Maybe he’d have to kill time.  Have a pint. Anything.  If he has been there, someone will recognize his picture.”

“You don’t know how the girls came into the country.  Even they couldn’t remember. They could have come in through any dock.” John said.

“Call it a hunch.  They don’t want to bring their operation too close to central London.  Too many eyes to see them.”

The cab turned a corner and began the process of reversing its course.  Sherlock suddenly gasped as the wheels in his head click on a solution.  “Oh! Not an international aid worker or a doctor.  A Merchant Mariner. Second Mate.  They have certain required medical knowledge.  Could easily fake the records of the cargo and crew.”

“That’s the guy we’re looking for?”

“No.  That’s the Father.  Papa.”  Sherlock said, and he explained to John all that had occurred during the interrogation of Eugene Hall.

They hadn’t spent any real time in towns West Thurrock/Grays.  It was odd mix of residential and commercial.  An IKEA  seemed oddly out of place but the car park was almost always full. 

The cab arrived in West Thurrock nearly thirty minutes later, and as soon as they stepped out of the cab, Sherlock’s phone buzzed with the text:

WHERE ARE YOU?  GL

Sherlock quickly responded.

SOMETHING CAME UP.  SH

Sherlock turned off his phone and looked at John.  “Did you bring your gun?”

“Of course.”

“Good.  The second mate always carries a firearm.  Just thought you should know.”

“Why do you know so much about merchant mariners?” John asked.

“Briefly considered it as a career while at uni.”

“How briefly?”

“Gave it a solid ten minutes of my time, and that was being generous.” 

Despite it being winter it was actually a lovely, clear day, too lovely a day for the work they had to do.  Somehow the weather seemed to betray them.  Sherlock would have preferred a gloomy sky and heavy fog, but it was sunny with a few clouds in the cerulean blue sky.  It grated his disposition a bit.  His coat was a bit too warm in the sun, and he had to loosen his scarf.

They left their cab on a commercial street, deciding that they would rent a car for the journey back.  They were surrounded by an odd assortment of shops, from hardware to mobile phones to fish and chips, tailors, pharmacy, book sellers, coffee sellers and a small pizza parlor.  “Care for a fresh coffee?” Sherlock asked.

They entered the small coffee shop that had a few outdoor tables and a cramped interior with a few tables.  The shop offered a small variety of simple pastries including scones.  There were a few customers seated at the tables, mostly chatting although one was one his computer hooked up to the free wifi.    Sherlock scanned the faces.  He wasn’t expecting to find the man who had violated the girls, but he looked nonetheless.  All too young, like university students.  Even the barista was a lanky youth with freckles and short ginger hair. “What would you like?” he asked.

“Information.” Sherlock said, and he pulled out his cell phone and brought up the picture of the man. “Have you ever seen him come in here?”

The barista, Ronny, squinted at the picture but shook his head.  “No, but I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I only work part time. I’m not good with faces anyhow.”

“No doubt you’ve found your niche.”  Sherlock said. 

“But maybe my boss knows.  She’s here most of the time.” Ronny said.  He turned and yelled, “Astrid!”

Just at the mention of her name Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned.  The woman who came out of the back storeroom, however, was in her thirties and was generously tattooed and pierced.  “Coppers are here.” He said.

“No, no.  We’re not the police.” John insisted.

Sherlock’s hand shot forward. “Sherlock Holmes. And this is Dr. John Watson, my colleague.”

“Yeah I’ve heard of you.” Astrid said. “I follow your cases.” She shook his hand firmly.  She had a strong grip.  Sherlock’s brain instantly began to analyze.  _Weight-lifter. Pit bull owner. Dog rescuer.  Good cook.  University degree. Married happily for six no seven years._   _Breast Cancer. Double mastectomy_.   _Infertile._ “How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for this man.  Perhaps you’ve seen him?”  He showed her the picture. 

Astrid took a good look. “Yeah, I think so, but he’s not a regular customer or anything.  He only comes in maybe every few weeks.”

“When was the last time he was here?” John asked.

“Maybe two weeks ago.”

“A lot maybes.  Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh yeah, that’s him.  He’s the one I call Farquahar.  Not his real name, of course.  I just give my customers nicknames sometimes.”

“Charming.” Sherlock said dryly.

“He comes in with his laptop.  Stays for a few hours sometimes.  Always checking his phone and his watch.  Always comes on a Saturday.” Astrid continued. “One time he stayed for six hours, and that was annoying because it was a busy day and he occupied a prime table.  But he keeps ordering all the time, and he’s a good tipper. He’s always alone.  But when he’s done, he’s done and he’s gone. Don’t think he’s from around here, though.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“His accent isn’t quite right.  I can’t quite place it.  I mean he looks Caucasian, and his accent is mostly right, but it’s not quite British. Sort of a put-on British.”

Sherlock took a deep breath while he processed the information.  The man never spoke much except in hushed tones on the videos Sherlock had seen.  It was impossible to tell what he was saying and therefore impossible to determine an accent.  The lighting in the videos hadn’t been perfect either, and it would have been impossible to say if he was olive-skinned or just tan, but his hair had been blond.

“Let me guess.  He always pays with cash.”  When Astrid nodded he asked, “Which is his normal table?”

She pointed to the empty table in the corner.  It had a good window view on two sides – perfect for keeping watch, if one needed to keep watch for something or someone. Sherlock and John ordered coffees and scones, then took the exact corner table. Although there were only a few other customers in the establishment, John and Sherlock spoke in fairly hushed tones.

“How did you happen to pick the right place?”

“Process of elimination, John.  Do you really still need me to break it down for you?” Sherlock asked.

“That superior thing you do, by the way, still gets on my nerves.” John said.

Sherlock sighed deeply.  “Sorry.  It’s simply the most obvious choice when you compare it to the other businesses.”

“Reminds me a bit of that night we were at Angelo’s waiting for the cabbie to drive by.” John said.  “Only you weren’t eating much then.  Are you allowing Molly to feed you up?”

Sherlock half smiled at the reminder of one of their first conversations. “I believe Molly had a conversation with my mother about my nutritional history.” He responded. “Nevertheless, neither of us cooks much, so it’s almost always take away when we share a meal.”

“Still not going public?” John asked.

“Nope.” Sherlock said.

“Do you still feel there is as much danger for you as there was a year ago?”

Sherlock had been looking out the window, but he turned his gaze to John. “The monsters are real, John. That’s why we’re on this case.”

“Sherlock, has it ever occurred to you—“ John began.

“It has all occurred to me.” Sherlock said.

“Damn it, let me finish for once.  Has it occurred to you that you are too close to this case? Can’t see the forest for the trees?” John asked.

“I have never been lost in the forest, John.” Sherlock insisted, and then he softened a little.  “I understand your concern, but I will put an end to all of this.”

“No.” John said quietly. “You are merely putting your finger in one hole in the dam if even that. This is much bigger than you, and you cannot fix it.”

Sherlock’s jaw tensed noticeably, and he said, “I do not intend to pursue this beyond the girls, but I will have justice for them.  They deserve that after all they’ve been through.  So whether this case is solved today, next week or in five years, it will happen.”

John knew there was no point in continuing the conversation.  Even so, he was glad to be back in the game with Sherlock.  Their relationship had changed somewhat since his marriage despite his assurances that they would still be doing cases together.  It had all been different since Sherlock had returned after being “dead” for two years. John had thrown himself into his medical practice which meant that he was less available, not to mention that he was married and had a child which also took a lot of his time.  He longed for the glory days of adventures with Sherlock, but on the other hand he wouldn’t change a thing in his private world.  Sherlock had worked without him before they had met and now worked mostly without him again.

“Do you think,” Sherlock began awkwardly, “that maybe someday you and Mary and Molly and I could be two couples who were best friends and did things together?”

“What kind of things?” John asked.

“I don’t know.  Best friend kinds of things. Holidays together, trips together, an odd murder case or two. That sort.”

John was a bit surprised to hear it. “Planning on moving next door to us too?”

Sherlock frowned a bit. “Never mind.” Sherlock checked his watch and immediately got up to leave.  John followed.  He always followed.

They walked the half mile to small shipyard, but Sherlock stopped just outside of the large flat area where the cargo containers were held in long rows.

“So…here we are.” John said. “Lots of ships come in and out of this dock, a second mate on every ship.  We don’t know which one we are looking for, and we can’t just walk onto one of those ships without authorization and proper clearance.”

Almost as soon as the words were uttered, a small police vehicle pulled up next to them, and Detective Inspector Swingle stepped out.  “Ah Mr. Holmes.  Back in my neighborhood creating more trouble I see.”

John turned to Sherlock.  “You let him know we were coming.”

“You were talking, I was texting.” Sherlock replied.  Sherlock turned to Swingle and briefly shook the Detective Inspector’s hand.  “Just poking around a bit.”

“I’ll see what I can help with.” He said.

The three men began walking towards the dock offices with Sherlock, Swingle and John forming a line.  “We’ve had port authorities at this dock performing random checks for the past several months rigorously going through every ship, inspecting every container, and there hasn’t been one illegal immigrant to be found nor have any more been found coming through here.”

“Random is like trying to catch fish in a net with big holes in it.”  Sherlock said.

“That’s the best we can do.  We can’t hold up every ship that comes in on the chance there might be an illegal immigrant on board.  Do you have any idea how long it takes to completely inspect a ship? Do you know how many ships come in and out of these docks?  Do you know how much pressure the shipping lines put on us?"

“I can only imagine.”Sherlock said.

In the dock offices, John, Sherlock and Swingle surveyed the waiting room full of sailors waiting for a turn on a ship.  There were far few jobs on ships due to many shipping lines cutting back on their fleets, and those with seniority or those who hadn’t sailed in the longest time received first priority.  The men and a few women came to those offices not specifically for jobs on the ships coming into those docks but to access information on available jobs on all the ships around Britain.  It was one of many such offices within the country.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Swingle asked.

“Don’t know, but I’ll know it when I see it.” Sherlock insisted. “No criminal ever covers their tracks completely.  Most are sloppy.  Adrenalin clouds the thinking after a crime and panic sets in.  Cover up gets messy.  The longer the crime spree, the messier the cover up gets, the deeper the lies.”

Sherlock asked to see crew list of the ship currently unloading cargo on the dock, and Swingle’s authority was able to procure the list.

Sherlock looked over the crew list and the type of cargo.  “Not this one.”

“Why not?” John asked.

“It’s from Edinburgh, and it only goes between here and Edinburgh.” Sherlock turned to Swingle.  “I want to know every ship that’s scheduled to come in to this dock for the next week.”

Swingle excused himself for a few minutes to procure a print out of the scheduled arrivals and their origins, and Sherlock pulled John aside.  “The Thames doesn’t support the very large cargo ships.  We’re looking for the smaller ones as well as the large yachts that pass between countries known for trafficking in the child sex trade.”

 Swingle returned after several minutes with a print-out and Sherlock looked it over.  “That one.” He said as he pointed to one specific ship set to arrive on Saturday, a few days away.  “That’s the one to check. I’d like a crew list, please.”

Swingle scowled a bit. “Anything else while I’m over there?”

“No, that will be all, thank you.” he said and Swingle skulked off to get the crew list.  Sherlock turned to John.  “You may as well go home and come back Saturday.”

“What about you?”

“I think I’ll stick around, do a little sightseeing for a few days.” Sherlock said.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street, packed up a few changes of clothes and his laptop.  Although he didn’t normally update Mrs. Hudson with his activities, he did let her know in vague terms that he would be away from home but that he hoped to be back sometime on the weekend.  He also texted Molly that he would be away on a case and that he would call her as soon as he was available. 

LET’S HAVE DINNER WHEN I RETURN. YOU CAN PRACTICE YOUR RSM PRESENTATION ON ME. SH.

DINNER OKAY, BUT YOU HAVE TO COME TO THE EVENT TO HEAR IT.  MH

He did not know how to respond to that, and so he chose not to respond at all.  Let her think what she will, he thought.  Bloody event.  He hated those things.  Mycroft was totally at ease at such functions but Sherlock was not and generally avoided them.  John’s wedding reception had been the last such type of event he had attended.  That was another reason why he turned down wedding invitations, not that he received many.  He had achieved a reputation for eschewing such events in general, and although he was invited to art gallery openings, various parties and public events, no one ever expected him to show up.  Inviting him was simply a formality.  It would take a command from the Queen herself to force him to appear, and he didn’t see that ever happening.  Although he was still considered a national treasure in Britain, he had fallen in grace some with the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen.  He doubted he would ever receive a knighthood or any honor leading to it, not that he wanted that anyhow. There had been a time earlier in his career, however, when Mycroft had threatened him with it, and he was certain it would eventually come his way regardless after he cleared up the scandal with Irene Adler.

He tried to convince himself that Molly didn’t actually expect him to attend.  She knew how he felt about such things, and yet he couldn’t shake the niggling doubt in the back of his mind that it would be incredibly bad form were he not to attend _her_ event.  Even so, he put it out of his mind.  There were monsters and dragons to be dispatched in London, and those took priority over all else.

Although he could have simply returned to West Thurrock on Saturday, he decided to be there early and possibly have the element of surprise on his side if there was someone to be apprehended, and he hoped there would be. 

He set up “camp” in a boutique hotel within a mile of the dock and he immediately began to research the vessel that he most suspected.  He also rang Lestrade to get an update on what had happened with the Scotland Yard round up earlier.  “Didn’t find our man, Sherlock.” Lestrade said.

“No one yet coughing up information?”

“Rescued a young woman from Indonesia who was being held as a slave, but this is bloody huge.  You look around London and you see people having a coffee and visiting the theater, going about their normal days, and then there’s this very dark side.”

“Our cultural melting pot hides the monsters among us.” Sherlock said.

“I take it you got a hot lead and are pursuing it.” Lestrade said.

“Call it a hunch.”

“Yeah, well call me if you need backup.”

“Don’t worry, Detective Inspector.  I shall try not to kill anyone.  I know how you hate extra paperwork.”

Lestrade was a good cop but most importantly a loyal friend, and Sherlock had come to realize just how much he appreciated that friendship, even if he never voiced it or was willing to share a meal with him.  Lestrade knew and kept Sherlock’s darkest secret, the murder of Magnussen.  They kept a professional distance away from work, however, and that was the comfort zone for each.  Sherlock also had the unwitting habit of spewing deductions about Lestrade’s personal life that always unnerved Lestrade a bit.

Sherlock kept mostly to himself during the days leading up to Saturday although he spent some time each day observing the dock from a discreet location on the grassy bank by the Thames.  This was not a dock for cargo ship but for oil tankers.  The oil was funneled directly from the ships through a suspended pipeline and into an area known as the old storage depot. Oil tankers were noxious, reeking hulks of metal where the smell of crude oil permeated everything.  There was a high incidence of cancer among such sailors, and most didn’t tolerate the work too long.    Some only took one trip on a tanker and swore them off for the rest of their lives.  Work on tankers, therefore, was easy to come by for those willing.

He observed the other boats and yachts that cruised the Thames.  Between Sherlock and the dock was a wide, muddy shore as the tide was currently low.  To try to venture onto muddy embankment would require a rescue as one would quickly sink to their knees and become entrapped in the mire.  When the tide was high, the embankment was covered in water.  Either way, the ships were inaccessible.  Occasionally a large yacht would disappear behind the tanker and not re-emerge for an unusual length of time.  He realized he was on the wrong side of the Thames for monitoring that activity, and he quickly made his way across the A282 and for the ASDA distribution center car park.  ASDA had its own dock, but there were no ships unloading at the moment.  Sherlock once again took up watch on the banks.  Several hours of watching the docks on the opposite side of the Thames did not produce any more suspicious activity, and he found that irritating.  Yachts and all manner of sailing craft went in both directions, but there was nothing unusual.  He did think that he would one day like to own a small yacht, and he found himself watching the boats just for the sheer pleasure of it. 

“A boat is nothing more than a hole you pour money into.” Mycroft had once said to him. Even if he probably was correct, Sherlock still groused that he was a killjoy.

Sherlock left the south side of the Thames and returned to his hotel.  The temperature had dropped swiftly as soon as the sun set, and although he would like to have stayed and monitored the dock with his night vision goggles, he knew he was not dressed for the weather.  His hands were already mostly numb, and he blew on them to warm them. 

Once inside his hotel room he was quick to take a long, hot shower to warm his body, and when he felt that the chill on him was completely gone, he donned his pyjamas and dressing gown and set at work with his computer.

He had thought for some time about writing his autobiography, but he had always struggled with where to begin it.  Starting at birth seemed so mundane, almost a trope.  His written essays at university had been labeled too erudite because his vocabulary was more like the Oxford dictionary, and he often used uncommon words just to annoy his professors.  He didn’t know how to approach his own life in words, however, and he stared for some time at the blank screen and the blinking cursor.   If he talked about the gifts he was born with, would it only read as self-aggrandizing?  If he wrote of the bullying he received in his life, would it seem as if he were looking for sympathy?  How could he make anyone ever understand how his mind worked?  How could he make anyone understand that his abilities came as naturally to him as breathing and that sometimes even he was surprised by the solutions that popped so quickly into his head after only a single glance at evidence. Also, if the criminal sect read his book, wouldn’t they then possibly learn some tricks to outwit him?  It was hopeless.  What was the point?  At any rate, he felt he was too young to author an autobiography.  Perhaps in twenty to thirty years he would have something exemplary to share.  The only thing he could think to do was perhaps keep a log of his processes and then someday be able to put it all into a cohesive form. 

The cursor continued to blink at him, taunting him.  Nevertheless he began to type.  It was halting at first, but the words soon began to flow.  So much to say.  The words tumbled out almost faster than his fingers could type, and he looked at the clock on his IPhone to realize three hours had passed and he had madly typed out several thousand words, mostly about Moriarty.  He thought he could write an entire book on Moriarty alone and that he just might do it.  He wouldn’t bother to edit now, not that he believed he needed editing anyhow.  He would simply write as the muse hit him.  He had plenty more to say about Moriarty, but he shut down his laptop and decided to go to bed early.

A quick flip through the channels on the television only reinforced the dearth of late night programming, and that was quickly shut down too.  He shut off the lights but kept his cell phone on.  He scanned his email for interesting cases.  Nothing above a four.  In disgust he plugged his phone into his charger and shut down entirely for the night.

He watched the ships for two days, making note of shipping companies, how long they were at dock, if any smaller boats came alone beside them while they were docked, what make were the smaller boats, how many crew, any suspicious activity.

Shipping times were never exact.  Ships could hope to be in port on a certain date and generally were, but they weren’t on a strict time table like Britain’s trains.  Arrival times could easily be delayed by weather, cargo checks and rechecks in other ports, but time being money, lengthy delays were infrequent.  He moved to the west side of the A282 where the cargo ships came in.  Countless cargo containers were lined up in the enormous cargo park, either waiting to be picked up by a truck to be taken abroad Britain or were waiting to be loaded onto the ship. 

John returned very early Saturday morning to meet with Sherlock in anticipation of one ship coming in, a ship from the Black Sea that passed through Istanbul, through the Aegean and the Mediterranean before making its way out into the Atlantic and then the English Channel, finally working its way up the Thames.  It originated from the Ukrainian seaport in Odessa, and Sherlock felt the origination and route had all the hallmarks for human trafficking from the Ukraine although he knew the vessel could have a completely clean record.

The dockyard offices were open 24/7 but the ship in question was still hours away from being in port.  Sherlock had already put in a text to Lestrade to ask him to also come to the dock and to make certain he had the necessary authorization to board and thoroughly search the ship and its cargo, even if it took all day.  Lestrade was not pleased with the rush order on the authorization, but Sherlock also knew that a simple call to Mycroft could force the situation. 

Sherlock and John returned to the coffee shop later in the morning to see if by chance their wanted man was there waiting for the Ukrainian ship, but he was not.  Immediately Sherlock’s hopes began to fade, and he felt as if he’d wasted three days and probably stored up a lot of useless information that he would need to delete.  Even though the corner table where they had sat before was empty, they chose to leave it empty on the off chance the man would show up.

“If he does come in, John, try to restrain me.” Sherlock said.

Astrid came over to take their order.  “Actually, he did come in, but he didn’t stay long.  _Someone_ tipped him off. That’s why he’s in the back washing dishes and taking inventory.”

Sherlock bolted up from the table and ran into the back of the coffee house, where he confronted the young barista.  He grabbed him and pressed him back to the wall with a terrifying brute force.  “What did you say?  What did you say to him?”

Ronny was clearly startled and frightened by Sherlock’s aggression. “I was just asking him questions so I could give you information.  That’s all!”

“You fool!  You stupid little fool!” Sherlock slammed Ronny’s back to the wall again.  “You have ruined months of investigation!”

“Sherlock!” John said as he pulled Sherlock back. “Just calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, John!  You don’t know what I’ve seen!” Sherlock hissed.  Sherlock went after Ronny again, but John put himself between them when Ronny let out a girlish squeal of fear and cringed.

“I just wanted to help!” he cried.

“You little pisser!  You’ve ruined everything!”

“But I got something!  I did!” Ronny insisted.  He showed them his forearm.  Scrawled in pen that was slightly smeared but still legible were a series of numbers.  A license plate.

Sherlock grabbed Ronny’s arm and studied it carefully, burning the numbers into his memory.  “You followed him?”

“Yes, sir, but he didn’t see me doing it.  He was acting all nervous like.  Got into his van and took off.”

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”  John said to Ronny, and then he leaned in close to Sherlock and said quietly, “Maybe you should apologize.”

Sherlock hesitated and cleared his throat. He didn’t want to apologize at all.  He still wanted to throttle him.  Sherlock patted Ronny’s cheek although it more of a light slap. “You have not been altogether useless.  I’ll leave you to the police to give a full report.  You’ll leave out this little incident, and I’ll leave out the part about you interfering in a police investigation.”

Sherlock straightened his coat collar and took a deep, sharp breath before turning and heading out.  As he passed by Astrid he said, “Nothing to worry about, but he’ll want to change clothes.  I believe he shat himself.”

John and Sherlock walked out of the coffee house and onto the street, and Sherlock took out his phone.

“Going to run the license plate?” John asked.

“Oh there’s no hurry on that.  Easy to find him now.” Sherlock said.

“But we could also go after him now.  I thought that was what this was all about.”

“Don’t think I don’t want to, but the ship is coming in, John, and we have the supplier to catch.  Father or Papa.  Our blonde man may not be in contact with Father yet to warn him, and we need the element of surprise.  We catch him and we use him to get to the other.  The big fish will catch the smaller fish.”

Lestrade arrived within a half hour with a team of plain-clothes officers and several search dogs.  They didn’t want any visual clues to anyone on the ship that the police were waiting for them.  Nothing at all would come off the ship that hadn’t been thoroughly inspected, and every door would be opened, every inch of the ship crawled through and searched.  If there were any children being trafficked on the ship, they would be found.  And to make certain that nothing escaped on the river side of the ship, a police barge was conveniently located across the Thames at the ASDA dock.  This would, of course, create a terrible delay in all the goods coming off the ship  arriving at their destinations within Britain not to mention there would be a line of ships waiting to access the dock.  Time in shipping was money, and everyone would be affected, sometimes at a rate of £500,000 or more per day for the larger shipping lines.

Sherlock did not ask Swingle to return to the docks.  He had used him for what he needed and saw no need to involve him further.  He also knew how Lestrade worked, and he needed that familiarity on this case.

As soon as the ship was docked, Sherlock, John and Lestrade led the team up to the dock, and they boarded the ship.  It was not Sherlock’s first time aboard a cargo ship. They were as formidable as they looked as well as dangerous.  Hulking steel cargo containers were lifted off one by one, opened, inspected thoroughly and processed to a waiting truck.  The captain of the ship, Vasliv Berezhany, spoke fluent English with a heavy Russian accent.  He was not pleased with having his ship searched and demanded to know why he was being detained.

“Because we believe you may be transporting illegal cargo.” Sherlock said.

He got very close to Sherlock’s face and swore at him in Russian. Sherlock didn’t flinch and responded in Russian. Berezhany then swore in Ukrainian and Sherlock responded in that language. Berezhany then cracked a half smile at being outwitted and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.  “And how many languages do you speak, Mr. Holmes?”

“Enough to get myself out of most any situation.” Sherlock said simply and that made the captain laugh.

“And I’ll be needing everyone’s passports.” Lestrade said.  “I’ll keep them until we are satisfied that there is nothing illegal here.”

“I run a clean ship.” The captain insisted.  “Please feel free to have Scotland Yard look anywhere.”

The 2nd Mate, Odo Missier, brought up the log of all the containers, when they were last inspected.  He was a tall, muscular man who looked a bit rough and weary from years at sea. “We took on our last containers in Malta.  Just a few, really.” 

Sherlock looked Missier over and almost immediately said, “Where is your little white dog?”

“How did you know I had a little white dog?” he asked in shock.

“Because he’s Sherlock bloody Holmes.” John said.  That is when John noticed the white pet hairs on Missier’s shirt.

“Mitzi.” The captain said.  “She’s become a bit of a mascot.  Don’t worry, she never leaves the ship, and we make certain all her veterinary records are up to date.  Is she a problem?”

“Well, that all depends, doesn’t it?” Sherlock said cooly. “Take me to her.”  He actually wanted to see Missier’s stateroom.  He needed evidence and was slightly surprised when Missier agreed so nonchalantly.  That immediately made Sherlock second guess himself.    Although he had no specific evidence against Missier and although he’d only just met the man, he nonetheless considered him the most likely potential suspect.  He couldn’t quite place Missier’s accent, and Missier wasn’t speaking in anything but English.

John and Sherlock arrived at his stateroom to the excited yappy barks of a little white dog. “Maltese?” Sherlock asked.  Mitzi bounced around the legs of Missier and practically jumped into his arms when he bent down to pick her up.  She immediately set about licking his face.

“Yes.” Missier said.

“Official dog of Malta?” John asked.

“No.” Missier said.  “That would be the Kelb tal-Fenek.”

“Never heard of that breed.” John said.  He turned to Sherlock.  “Mary’s been asking me to get a little dog.”

“It’s a bit like a Pharaoh Hound but not quite.” Missier said.  “Mitzi is litter box trained.  She has to be for long voyages.”

Sherlock barely heard him as his eyes wandered around the room and observed its military neatness. Strangely few personal effects.  No family pictures.  A few books related to his job that undoubtedly accompanied him on every journey.  A laptop computer.  Everything seemed ordinary.  Was it really ordinary or just made to look ordinary?  He winced, thinking he was so close and yet something was escaping him.  And then he gasped as an answer came to him suddenly. Missier was from Malta else he wouldn’t have known the official dog of the country. He didn’t know but a few words in Maltese as he’d never had a reason to need the language, but Missier translated to father. Oddly, his first name also roughly translated to father.  But was this actual evidence or merely circumstantial?

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice alerted him out of his thought process. Lestrade was suddenly at the door. “You’d better come.”

Sherlock and John immediately followed Lestrade below decks to the lowest level of storage containers where two of the dogs were anxiously sniffing around a container on the end who doors were accessible and had been already opened. The smell hit them all immediately. Human waste, foul and fetid air.  Decay. Sherlock turned on his torch and shone the light to the back of the container. Several pairs of eyes stared back at him. 

The captain groaned in despair at the sight.  “Oh no.  No.  I didn’t know.”

“Where’s Missier? Wasn’t he behind us?” Sherlock asked and he turned and ran back the way he came and made his way back to Missier’s quarters.  Missier was not there, just as Sherlock had suspected, and the laptop was also missing.  Sherlock did a quick sweep of the room, and that’s when he found another bit of evidence: an anonymous mask tucked away in the closet.

Sherlock knew that Missier was armed as part of his job. This had the potential of not ending well.  He knew that Lestrade carried as did John, but he wasn’t sure about any of the other policemen and women.  Bullets would ricochet wildly within the steel ship, and he was not interested in collateral damage.  Sherlock hurried up to the bridge to get a better overview of the ship. Missier was down below on the stern with Mitzi in his arms, and he watched as Missier tossed his laptop into the incoming tide of the Thames.  Sherlock rushed back down the several flights of stairs to the deck.

“Missier!” he yelled as he ran onto the stern. 

Missier turned and drew his gun. “I don’t want to shoot anyone.  I don’t!” Missier insisted. “But I’m a desperate man, you see?”

Sherlock raised his hands.  “Yes, I see.  But I am unarmed. Why don’t you put your gun down now.”

Missier looked down at the churning cold Thames below.  Mitzi barked and squirmed in his arms, and he jostled her a little to calm her.

“If you jump, the shock of the cold water could stop your heart, but the police will fish you out and restart your heart.  Trust me, it’s not a pleasant procedure.  The jump will likely kill Mitzi, though.”

Missier looked at his dog.  His own breaths came out in rapid puffs in the cold January air.  He put the gun to his temple, and Sherlock startled.  Seeing one person shoot themselves in the head in his life was all he ever wanted of that.

“No, no! Think about Mitzi!  You love Mitzi!  You wouldn’t do that to her!” Sherlock said.  “Odo, I’m not after you.  You’re just the trafficker.  You probably don’t even know what happens to the people after they arrive.  Just take the money and deliver them.  Isn’t that right?  Except you don’t traffic refugees, do you?  No, you know don’t.  You are basically a modern slave trader.  Even so, I am after one of your contacts.  You can help me get to him.  I need your help.  Will you help me?”

“Sherlock!”  John ran up onto the deck, his gun drawn at Missier, and he was followed by Lestrade and several police. 

“Everyone stand down!” Sherlock commanded.  “John, put your gun down!  Do it now!”

John lowered his gun and Lestrade motioned his team to step back.

“Odo, we’ve all done terrible things, but now it’s time to stop worse things from happening.”  Sherlock took a step closer and held out his hand.  “Please, give me the gun. C’mon, it’s freezing out here. Look at Mitzi.  She’s shivering.”

Missier hesitated, then lowered the gun and handed it to Sherlock.  The stand-off was over, and he was immediately hand-cuffed and led away by Lestrade’s team, and Mitzi was put into the arms of the captain.

John and Lestrade approached Sherlock.  “You all right?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded and handed the gun over to Lestrade.  “Never underestimate a man’s love for his dog.” 

“Now we just need to find out which truck was scheduled to pick up that container, if they haven’t bolted already.” Lestrade said.  He scowled a bit.  “I foresee a lot of paperwork.”

“Just doing my part, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock said, but he knew it wouldn’t be better until he apprehended the one man he was still after in the case.

Despite police best efforts, Missier’s laptop was never recovered.  His cell phone, however, was to provide vital clues.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Odo Missier’s arrest was kept entirely secret as was the raid on the ship.  Lestrade and Sherlock agreed that it would be wiser to continue the false sense of security among Missier’s contacts so that they could be rounded up one by one via stealth.  Several arrests were made, including two diplomats from Saudi Arabia whose diplomatic immunities were immediately revoked and they were deported.  All of this activity was kept out of the press since one person in particular remained elusive.

Sherlock did not share the license plate information with Lestrade.  As it turned out, the license plate number given to Sherlock at the coffee house was from a rented vehicle, a fact which did not surprise him.  However, the vehicle was rented via a credit card belonging to a Jarvis Berend.  At least now Sherlock had a name, and a quick check on the internet found a website with tastefully and beautifully photographed children.  He was a professional photographer.  There were also glowing reviews of his work from happy parents.  Part of Sherlock’s mind wondered, however, if it was all fake but he had no way of knowing at that point.  A click on the “about me” page gave professional credentials and a picture.  Sherlock drew a sharp breath, almost as if he’d been startled.  _There he was._   It was an older picture, perhaps 20 years ago, of a slender, blond man half hidden behind the lens of a Nikon camera.  But it was _him._

The man Sherlock had seen in the videos was 20-30 pounds heavier, definitely older , but the same features.  This man could create beautiful images of children and yet do the most heinous things to them.  Sherlock had hated Charles Augustus Magnussen, but Berend took his ability to hate to an entirely new, dark level.  It was a darkness that could at any moment threaten to overwhelm him, and he knew he dared not wallow in it.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” John asked as he looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the computer screen.

“Yes.” Sherlock hissed.  _The photographer.  The monster in London._

John took out his phone and started to dial, and Sherlock turned suddenly and grabbed his phone away. “We should let Lestrade know!” John insisted.

“No!” Sherlock said.  “I’m bringing him down myself.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” John asked.  He was slightly annoyed at Sherlock’s obsession although he partly understood it.  Nevertheless, he never went against Sherlock’s plans.  To do so would be tantamount to being traitorous, and it would spell the end of their friendship and partnership.  If John were to severely disagree, which he had on occasion, he simply left Sherlock on his own.  Somehow, however, even when Sherlock was wrong he was always right.

Sherlock got up and began to pace.  “I don’t know.  I have to think.  I need a trap, a snare.  He’s under the radar, and we can’t track him.” 

“That’s why Lestrade can help.  Sherlock, you have to tell him. We can’t let this animal be out on the streets any longer than we have to.  The more eyes that are looking for him, the faster we find him.”

Instictively Sherlock knew that John was right, but he desperately wanted to find Berend himself.  The website had a phone number, and Sherlock picked up his IPhone and called it, putting it on speaker phone for John to hear.  He was not surprised when he got a recording. What did surprise him was the recording he heard.  He was partially expecting the number to be disconnected.

_“You’ve reached Berend Photography Ltd.  I’m currently away, but leave a message and I’ll get back with you as soon as I return. And remember: be nice to your children because one day they’ll be deciding on your nursing home.”_

“That’s a bit cheeky.” John said as he looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the computer screen.

“Oh he’s clever.  He’s very clever.  But not too clever.” Sherlock said.  Sherlock sat down again and began to furiously type into a website.

“Are you hacking?” John asked.

“Is that news to you? Lestrade’s team would have to subpoena the records.  I’m saving time.” Sherlock asked as he continued to type.  John had known that Sherlock hacked on occasion.  He was quite efficient at it, and even if he couldn’t do it, he knew people who could.  He knew Sherlock had networks in all the classes, even the criminal classes.  Although Sherlock largely played with the good guys, he also knew how to use the bad ones to his advantage.

“You’re bringing up his phone records.” John said.

“Obviously.” Sherlock said.  A quick glance at the phone records showed the phone had not been used for outgoing calls since the raid at the dock.  Calls had come in, but they were all under thirty seconds, probably just long enough to leave a message on the voice mail or to check voice mail.   Where were the incoming calls coming from?  His brain searched for a pattern among the incoming numbers.  John looked closely too.

“This number has called in three times.”

“Either he’s checking his voice mail or someone is persistent in attempting to use his services.” Sherlock said.  “If we set a trap now, he’ll be too suspicious since he just nearly was caught.  We need him to relax a bit a let his guard down.”

“But Sherlock, if we involved Scotland Yard, we could bring him down quickly before anyone else gets hurt.  We don’t know if he’s got children right now—“

Sherlock growled loudly and slammed his fist onto the table.  “I know!  Must you always state the mundane?” He took a deep breath, then said, “Sorry.  Sorry, John.”

The two men began a tense, awkward silence.  “Give yourself a bloody aneurism, see if I care.” John finally said under his breath.

“We were so close, John.  We could have had him.” Sherlock said with resignation.

“But now we’re not close, and we need help before any other children are hurt.”

Lestrade arrived within the hour, and his first words with Sherlock were not pleasant.  “I told you at the beginning of this case that you were to share all information and not to go off on your own.  I didn’t really want you to see those videos, you know, because this is exactly what I thought would happen: that you would treat me and Scotland Yard like we’re incompetent and don’t have the resources needed to bring this man down!  You will not be a vigilante!  You are not the law! Have I made myself clear?”

Sherlock winced at the decibel of Lestrade’s voice. “Loudly.”

“And don’t get a smart mouth with me, or so help me, I will have you arrested for withholding evidence and interfering in a police investigation!” He snapped.  He took a moment to calm himself and then said “I do understand that you want to find him, throttle him, and bury him, and if I weren’t on the side of the law, I would help you.  So why don’t you show me what you’ve got.”

Sherlock shared the license plate information and showed Lestrade the website, but he didn’t reveal that he had hacked a phone provider’s website. “You’ll likely find that Berend’s business phone was never used to contact Missier.  He’s smarter than to leave that trail.” Sherlock said.

“Well, if he’s got one credit card, he’s likely got more.  We can put a freeze on his bank accounts and credit, and he’ll run out of money soon enough.” Lestrade said.  “Smoke him out of his hole.”

“That’s one plan.” Sherlock said.

Lestrade half smiled.  “See?  There are things I can do that you can’t do.  I’ll put surveillance on his house and business, make sure he doesn’t leave the country, if he hasn’t already. I’ll get Interpol on it.”

“Capital idea, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock said.

Lestrade and John both picked up on the sarcasm in Sherlock’s voice.  Lestrade crossed his arms and scowled at Sherlock.  “What?”

“I’m quite certain if you checked his phone records you would see outgoing calls made from the business number you would be able to verify his whereabouts.  Interpol is hardly necessary when he’s obviously here in Britain.”  Sherlock faced Lestrade squarely.  “I have given you the information you need to begin to track him in your departmental way, but I will continue to pursue him in my own way.  I promise to share anything vital that will speed up his capture, but you must allow me to do what I do best, and I must ask you not to interfere. Please, Greg.”

Lestrade’s jaw tightened as he stared down Sherlock. “Since you actually correctly called me by my first name for once…”

“Did I?” Sherlock was surprised.  “I thought I was being random.”

Lestrade cursed him quietly but then half smiled.  Somehow Sherlock always got the better of him.

Lestrade left soon after and John turned to Sherlock. “So what’s your plan?”

“Scotland Yard has a lot of work to do on shutting down his life.  That should keep them busy for a few days, and that gives us a slight time advantage.”

“Time for what?”

That’s when they recruited Mary.  Elizabeth’s birthday party had already passed, but they asked Mary to call Berend’s number  and inquire about getting a photo shoot for their fictitious 10-year old daughter’s upcoming birthday.  Mary put on her sweetest voice, but she asked Sherlock and John to turn their backs to her as she made the call from her kitchen so as not to be distracted by their over-eager faces.

Mary juggled Elizabeth on her hip as she spoke on the phone.  John offered to take her, but Mary shook her head.  “If he hears one child in the background, it strengthens the illusion.  Step aside, boys, and watch a professional work.”  She cleared her throat while Elizabeth scrunched her hand in a wave at Sherlock and said “Lala.”  That was her name for him. Although he spent very little time with her, Mary and John made certain she knew who he was.  She wanted to be put down, but Mary wouldn’t put her down.  Mary wanted any sounds she made to bolster the story.

 “Yes, uh hello.  This is Mary Morstan, and my daughter, who is about to turn 10, is having a birthday party and I was wondering if you’d be available for some photos of the event or if you even do that, and what your prices would be.  I’ve seen your website, and your work is lovely, and I just wanted to know if you were available.  So please give me a call back.”  Mary added her phone number and then disconnected the call.  She turned to Sherlock and John.  “He probably won’t call me back you know.”

“Not at first.” Sherlock said.  “But we’ve just put out a little bait, and he’s going to get hungry.”  He took Elizabeth from Mary’s arms.  “Hello, little namesake.  SHER-LOCK.” 

“La-la.” The one-year old repeated.  She had a very small spoken vocabulary but understood more words that she could say.  She turned to John and held out her arms.  “Dada.” 

John took his daughter from Sherlock’s arms.  “She’s a bit at a clingy stage.” John said. 

“If you boys are thinking of staging some sort of fake birthday party here, forget it.  I’m not having that monster in my house for one second, even if Lizzie and I aren’t here.” Mary said firmly.  “I will kill him myself.” 

“No you won’t.” John said.  “Your gun is locked up, remember?”

She stared him down coldly.  “I don’t need a gun, John.”

Sherlock grinned.  “That’s my girl!”

As expected, however, there was no return phone call to Mary.  Since the incident at the coffee house, Berend had not been seen.  He had completely disappeared within Britain.  He had returned the rental vehicle, but there had been no more activity on his credit card. Berend may not have been on Britain’s “most wanted” list, but he was at the top of Sherlock’s list.  Now it was just a waiting game to lure him out of hiding, and Sherlock hoped it would be a short time.

His home and his business were raided.  Computers were confiscated, and a warrant was issued for his arrest although it was not leaked to the public.  Although his photography studio lacked any evidence of illegal activity, his home computer showed considerable activity in acquiring, trading, and participating in child pornography.  It was also discovered that he had used his Skype long-distance paid subscription to make contact with Missier, and therefore his person phone would never have reflected that activity. 

Even Sherlock wasn’t immune to them when on a case, and this case had a lot of things that veered his attention from things he would not normally overlook.  He asked to look at the video again but also asked that Berend and his victims be masked out.  He wanted to look at the backgrounds.  Where were these things filmed?  Not Berend’s home.  Perhaps there was a visual clue he had overlooked because he had been distracted by the horror he had witnessed, but a second viewing proved of little value.  He could tell which were filmed on the boat that sank months earlier, but the rest could have been filmed anywhere.  No clues of any significance.

After the arrest of Missier, all the crew were temporarily relieved of duty while the investigation continued, and a new crew took over the ship.  The ship returned to its previous schedule which was a three-week round trip between Odessa and West Thurrock.  Missier was held in the bowels of Scotland Yard where he was interrogated relentlessly by the most seasoned British interrogators, much the same way that Moriarty had once been interrogated by MI6.  Whereas Moriarty gave up very little information, Missier provided a wealth of information.  He was coerced into continuing the ruse that he was still on the ship and still bringing in special “cargo.”  He knew that the people he brought into Britain, especially the young girls, were likely to become slaves or conditioned to become child brides.  Saudi Arabia favored child brides, especially if they were blonde and blue-eyed, if they could get them.  Many of the children simply went into sexual slavery and child prostitution, even in Britain.

On target with the ship’s return three weeks later, Missier sent out a cryptic text message to Berend, but Berend did not show up or respond.  Three weeks later the same procedure was followed, but again, no one saw Berend in the vicinity of West Thurrock.  He was either suspicious or being overly cautious.  Perhaps both.   He was hiding and hiding well.  He made no attempt to   It frustrated Sherlock to no end that he had been so close.  He still wanted to return to the coffee house and throttle Ronnie.

Sherlock realized that at any time Scotland Yard might apprehend Berend and that in many ways it was out of his hands although he still hoped to be the one to bring him down.

Rather than remain completely idle while waiting for Berend to surface, Sherlock returned to Germany to be with Ford.  Ford, as usual, was never one to complain about how he was feeling.  Sherlock found it slightly unnerving that Ford, despite his circumstances, was always pleasant.  If he did lose his temper or had a bad moment, he was quick to apologize and ask forgiveness,  and Sherlock knew he personally lacked that trait.  Admitting any fault for his personal behavior was something he was reticent to do, and apologizing was very difficult as it required humility, something he mostly lacked.  Those in his private circle were used to the abrasiveness of her personality and generally overlooked it, but he realized that was something he would have to work on. Ford showed him that by example.

Ford had taken a leave of absence from work while he was on the intensive nutrition plan.  It was, in fact, impossible for him to work as he had very low energy and was often bedridden with flu-like symptoms as his body detoxified.   “I truly believe that physical trauma, guilt, grief, bitterness, loss, all these things can give cancer an environment to flourish.” He said on one of his better days.  “I don’t know if nutrition will detoxify my body from the effects of those, but I’ll do my best to try.”

Madeline had become terribly fond of Sherlock, and she spent as much time with him in his lap or arms as she could. If he took her for an outing by himself, people often remarked that he had a pretty daughter.  At first he corrected them that she was his niece, but after a while he stopped correcting them.  Madeline did look a lot like him, and he simply accepted the compliments with a half smile.  He even acquiesced to downloading Angry Birds on his phone so that she could play it if she got bored, and he thought he would remove the app as soon as he returned to Britain, but he never did remove it.

She ingratiated herself on him, and he wasn’t certain why.  Most adults could barely tolerate him, and yet this child seemed to be particularly drawn to him.  In general young children were not afraid of him and were also attracted with him.  He didn’t encourage them or attempt friendliness.  He didn’t think he had a particularly kindly face, and he failed to understand their fascination with him.  Even young Archie at Mary and John’s wedding had actually run up to him and thrown his arms around him. 

“It’s the man-child thing.” Ford had said one night.

“I find that vaguely offensive.” Sherlock scowled.

“What I mean is that you’ve never married or had children and known those responsibilities.  They change you.  You having always been single are still connected to that boy in your youth.  Kids sense that.”

“I’m engaged.”

“Not the same.  Either that or it’s your coat.”

“My coat? What’s wrong with my coat?”

“Nothing at all.  It’s your persona, your security, but you wear it like a bloody superhero cape.”

Sherlock’s mouth popped open to protest, not sure what to say next, and that made Ford laugh. Sherlock continued to scowl for a few moments but then he too began to laugh, and the two men laughed for at least five minutes until both had tears running down their cheeks.  Even then just one look at the other and they started to giggle again.

Sherlock wished he could laugh like that with Mycoft, but it was difficult to elicit such unrestrained emotion from his older brother.  Mycroft might laugh politely at a social gathering, but he never lost control.  When John lived at 221B there were times when he and Sherlock could make each other laugh, but it happened rarely as both generally danced on the edge of annoyance with each other.

Nearly six weeks after Missier’s arrest, he was still being held at Scotland Yard, and it didn’t look as if he would be released any time soon.  Berend hadn’t responded to the first call three weeks prior, and now he wasn’t responding to the second call just prior to the cargo ship returning to dock again. 

While Missier was trying to be as helpful as he could, Mary finally got the call she had been waiting for.

Berend apologized and said he had been away on holiday and that he was sorry to have missed her daughter’s birthday but that he’d be happy to do a photo shoot of her anytime.  Mary agreed and said she’d talk to her husband about setting up a time to go to his studio.

Mary was normally quite cool under pressure, but she had been out of the game for a while, and found herself trembling with excitement as she rang Sherlock with the news.

“How many times did you ring him? “ Sherlock asked.

“Three’s a charm.” Mary said simply.  “I didn’t want to appear too desperate but yet I wanted him to know that I was still interested.”

“Call him back and tell him that you’d like to set up a time, that your schedule is open except for Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.”

“Why not those days?” Mary asked.

“After school activities, ballet, whatever.  You’ll think of something.  Can’t appear too available or too eager.”

That phone call told Sherlock that Berend was surfacing, coming up for air, like a seal coming up through a hole in the ice, but Sherlock would be the waiting polar bear who would grab him and drag him up onto the ice where there would be no escape.

Mary called Berend again, and when he returned her call, he told her that his studio was currently being renovated and he was working out of another location, and he gave her an address.

“Are you going let Lestrade know?” John asked as he looking over Sherlock’s shoulder at his computer screen.

“Wouldn’t want to waste his time if it turns out to be nothing.” Sherlock said.  “Best keep it to ourselves for now.” Sherlock brought up the street address of Berend’s new location and used Google Maps to get down onto the street level and look around.  Remote reconnaissance.  Sherlock loved using the program to help him get a pre-visual of where he would be going.  John watched over his shoulder.  “What do you see, John?” Sherlock asked. 

“CCTV camera or security camera of some sort to the left of the door.  Looks like a doorbell or buzzer so people have to be buzzed in.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock said.  “That means he’s scanning everyone who comes to the door.  No surprises.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want Mary going to the door with someone’s ten-year-old just so we can get inside.” John said.

“Of course not.” Sherlock said.  “She doesn’t have to be anywhere in the vicinity. We just need to commandeer that camera and feed it a pre-recorded image.  He opens the door, and in we go.”

“Suppose he shows up late and finds us standing there?”

“Don’t worry, John.  Mary’s going to be late.  Very late.” Sherlock said.

Yet despite their meticulous trap-setting, Sherlock had an uneasy feeling that it was all a little too easy, a little too obvious.  Berend had managed to avoid detection for several weeks, and it was very possible that he would observe from a distance to see if Mary and child actually showed up before he proceeded to enter the studio.

There was a possibility that he was living out of the alternate studio, and certainly he was somewhere in the vicinity.  A quick check for property titles revealed that he was not the owner of the property but that it was actually held by a local bank from a foreclosure several years before.  Whether it was being rented or simply commandeered was unknown.  It was a non-descript building without even a street number or sign. 

“I hope we don’t find what we found at the abandoned cinema.” John said.

“It’s less than two miles from where we rescued the Ukrainian girls, but he wouldn’t be so stupid as to agree to meet with a new client and expose that side of himself, especially since it has to be in the back of his mind that this could be a trap.”

“Can we get inside there before the appointment?” John asked. “Have a look around?”

“Breaking and entering?” Sherlock raised his brow at John.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” John said.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Sherlock grinned.

The building was located within two miles of Racecourse Marina Windsor, and Sherlock immediately sent over two of his most reliable people in his homeless network.  He wished he could send over Bill Wiggins, but Bill had gone quiet since before Christmas, and Sherlock suspected he was sorting out his life a bit.  When no activity was seen coming in or out of the building, Sherlock and John made their way over the day before Mary was set to arrive.  They took a cab late in the afternoon but had it park out of sight nearly a block away.  They asked their cabbie to wait and said they wouldn’t be long.

The locked back door did not have a security camera.  As Sherlock began to pick the lock, John said quietly, “Suppose there’s an alarm.”

“There won’t be.  Why draw attention to this building which by all rights should be empty?” Sherlock said.

As the tumblers clicked into place, Sherlock turned the handle and a small piece of paper fell out of the latch.  He bent down to retrieve it.  “Oh that’s really amateurish.” He said.  He let John in, then replaced the paper in its place and locked the door from the inside. 

Both turned on their torch lights in the dark space rather than turn on the electricity.  What they were confronted with wasn’t a warehouse, but it was a large, cavernous space filled with sheet-covered objects stacked against the side walls.  Clearly storage of some sort.  Sherlock pulled back the sheet on one item.  A tufted red headboard for a king-sized bed.  He pulled out his black light and held it up to the headboard.  Various spots and streaks appeared, stains that weren’t visible under the light now practically shouted their existence.  “Is that what I think it is?” John whispered.

“Probably.” Sherlock replied.

Another sheet lifted revealed a rack of clothing, some period, most of it risqué including a riding crop at the end. 

 “What is all this stuff?”

Sherlock pulled down another sheet to reveal a mattress and bed frame.  “Props I suspect.  Porn industry.” He replied.  “I doubt someone could move this stuff in here without collusion from someone at the bank.  This trail just never ends.”

Large rolls of backdrop were hung from the ceiling, and Sherlock pulled the cord to unroll one.  A beach front background.  He pulled down another.  A woodland setting.  Another.  Flocked wallpaper.  He stopped for a moment.  He had seen that wallpaper before.  He had seen it in one of the videos he had watched.  Was it filmed here?  He couldn’t be certain, but he was suspicious.

A distant _click_ made them freeze, and their torch lights immediately went out. “Did you bring your gun?” Sherlock whispered.

“I don’t carry it all the time, you know.” John replied.

The building was suddenly flooded with light leaving John and Sherlock totally exposed.  Footsteps approached, then stopped.  Sherlock and John exchanged a glance, both ready to spring into action if the person came too close. A man’s footsteps. Worn heels that didn’t make a sharp click on the floor.  Ruffling of a sheet. 

Another light came on, this time blinding Sherlock and John, and they both heard a man’s voice say, “Oh shit!”  The person could see the silhouettes of Sherlock and John through the backdrop, and he ran.

John and Sherlock immediately ran after him.  Sherlock, as always, was quite light on his feet, sprinting like an Olympic athlete, even as the door was practically slammed in his face.  “Jarvis Berend!”

Sherlock pushed open the door, quick to get his bearings as he continued to pursue Jarvis Berend through the open field next to the building, finally taking a flying leap to bring catch him by the back of his coat and bring them both crashing into the cold earth.  Berend turned, quickly coming to blows with Sherlock, and the more they fought, the more Sherlock hated him, the more he saw the terrible images in his brain of what Berend had done to Ionna and Annicka.  Berend, however, seemed to have some fight training, and Sherlock found himself defending himself more that being on the offensive.  They both struggled to their feet, and Sherlock  grabbed his collar, slamming him backwards into the nearest light pole, Berend’s hands were on Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock slammed him against the pole again to force him to loosen his grip. John immediately jumped between them, forcing Berend down, his arms around Berend’s neck in a military choke-hold.

Sherlock was the stronger of the two men, but John was scrappier in a fight, and this fight was no exception.   John’s training was military combat while Sherlock’s training was in martial arts although he didn’t keep up with his training as much as he would have liked.   Sherlock staggered back and rubbed his throat as he gasped for air.

 “Tell me to break his neck, Sherlock!  Tell me!” John grimaced out the words as he tightened his grip.  Berend was now on the defensive as he tried to pull John’s arm away from his neck, but John had a steel grip on him.  “Tell me, Sherlock!” John was waiting.

When they had been on the case of the Bloody Guardsman, John had made the comment that he no longer had a commander since leaving the army but Sherlock knew that wasn’t true.  John naturally acquiesced towards leadership, and Sherlock had become his leader. Now John was ready to kill on Sherlock’s command.  “Tell me!” John screamed at him. 

This was the man that Sherlock had searched months for, the man who had violated Anichka and Ionna and countless other children.  This was a man he wanted dead.  He locked eyes with John.  He knew that John could easily kill Berend.  It could all be over in seconds.  John could snap Berend’s neck like a twig.  John had a death grip on him, and Berend was clearly struggling for air, even starting to turn blue.  There was no way John would release him, however.

Sherlock’s mind stopped for a moment.  Suddenly there was the monster he’d hunted.  All those months of searching, and it was over.  Jarvis Berend was not the monster-sized man Sherlock had imagined him to be.  No, he was somewhat average and more than a little pitiful although Sherlock felt no pity for him.  Sherlock had thought he might kill him if he ever caught him, so deep was his hatred of him.  He couldn’t deny that he still hated what Berend had done, but Sherlock realized he couldn’t kill him.  He had killed once, and except for self-defense, he vowed to himself in those split seconds that he would never kill again.

Sherlock removed his pair of handcuffs, pried one of Berend’s hands away from John’s arm, and cuffed his wrists around a light pole.  That was his answer.  John immediately let go but not before delivering a hard knee to Berend’s groin.  Berend groaned and slumped against the pole.

John staggered towards Sherlock and dropped to his knees in exhaustion in front of Sherlock.  Sherlock  extended his hand and helped John back to his feet.  The two men looked at each other and Sherlock shook his head.  “I can’t do it, John.  I can’t be responsible for you killing another man.  I can only be responsible for my own actions.  As much as this bastard doesn’t deserve to live, I want to see his name dragged through the mud in the courts of Britain.  I want him wrung dry of every name and contact he has by whatever means necessary, and that can’t happen if he’s dead.”

“Would you have killed him if I hadn’t jumped in?” John asked.

“Likely. Thank you for keeping me from that. Again.” Sherlock said.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt for you to put to use your first Dan in Judo once in a while.” John said as he brushed himself off and straightened his coat.

Sherlock  popped up his collar and coat and adjusted his gloves and scarf.  “That would just be showing off. Dinner?” he asked.

“We should call Lestrade first.”

“Already did as soon as we got out of the cab. Didn’t know what we’d find.  I just hoped we might catch him here.”

They could hear the wail of approaching police sirens.

“Chinese?” John asked.

“A case like this should end with filet steak.” Sherlock smiled.

His phone beeped an alarm tone, and he retrieved it from his pocket.  It was a calendar reminder.

MOLLY’S SPEECH RSM 1900

He’d pushed it so far out of his mind that he’d practically forgotten it.  He checked the time.  It was nearly 1800 hours.  For a moment he debated.  Surely she’d understand if he wasn’t there because he’d solved the case.  After all, he’d told her he was uncomfortable in social settings.  Surely she would forgive him.  Surely he didn’t have time to get ready anyhow.  She wasn’t even expecting him to be there.  Yet, to not be there would be a terrible social and relationship faux pas, but he felt the need to go with Lestrade to Scotland Yard and begin the processing of the man he’d worked so many months to apprehend.  This was not completely over for him.  He suddenly gasped and then swore words John rarely heard from him.  “I have to go.”  He quickly started towards the street, John on his heels.

“Sherlock where are you going?”

“Somewhere I have to be, John, and I’m already late!” 

“What about Berend?”

“I can’t.  You give the report to Lestrade.” Sherlock insisted.  

John stopped running and took a moment to catch his breath before turning back to his captive.  Sherlock sprinted down the block and around the corner to the waiting cab, and he jumped in quickly and shut the cab door.  He urged the cab driver to hurry, but it was rush hour, and he could feel his impatience tinged with panic rising with each moment.  When the cab came to a dead halt in thick traffic several blocks from Baker Street, Sherlock’s patience was done.  He paid the cabbie and nearly leapt out of the cab, sprinting down the pavement at breakneck speed.   He was going to be late.  Oh so late.  He could not stop berating himself despite his accomplishments not long before.

He arrived at Baker Street and dashed up the stairs and burst through the door of his flat, hurrying back towards his bedroom.  Within a few seconds the flat alarm went  off and he rushed back to turn it off, then yelled out the door towards Mrs. Hudson’s flat, “Sorry!”    He dashed back to his bedroom.  He checked his watch again.  Maybe she didn’t speak right away.  Maybe there was someone else who would give an introduction.  That would buy him a little time.  He took  an extremely fast shower,  his body still slightly wet when he redressed.  But his hair.  What to do about his hair.  It was wet and needed to be tamed or he would look like a wild man when it dried.  No time for fuss. He was out of the flat within fifteen minutes.  He hailed a cab quickly and once again began a trek through London.

His destination was the Savoy Hotel’s Lancaster Ballroom, rented by the RSM for this event.   Molly wasn’t the only speaker, but she was the featured speaker.  The event, he knew, had already started, and he was feeling flustered by being late while at the same time still trying to get dressed in the cab.   

Sherlock arrived wearing a black morning suit and looking like he was about to get married rather than attend a dinner conference for the Royal Society of Medicine.  His dark plum marcella waistcoat was straight-edged, and beneath that he wore a white silk shirt and a lavender and white diagonally striped silk ascot including diamond stick pin.  He sported a gold waistcoat fob chain, something he chided Mycroft for wearing as it seemed so dated, but on this night he actually wanted to appear old-fashioned. His normally curly fluff was parted on the side and then combed away from the part giving him an entirely different countenance although one curl maddeningly refused to submit and dangled onto his forhead. He was picture perfect as if he’d just posed for a GQ layout, and he carried himself as if he’d always worn such high fashion.  He was clearly the most over-dressed man in the room as all the other men were wearing casual business suits.  The women were dressed either in business pant suits or dresses, but he hadn’t dressed for them.  He had dressed for _her_.

He was late, of course, and Molly was already into her presentation.  She immediately saw him when he entered the room, and she gasped over his appearance in the middle of her sentence, then stammered to get started again.  She hoped the stammer wasn’t noticeable, but she was momentarily at loss for composure, and she felt as if everyone was staring at her, realizing she had stumbled.  This was not the man she was accustomed to seeing.  Gone were the trench coat and the curls.  He looked as if he’d just stepped out of an early posh Clark Gable movie.  She quickly averted her eyes before every doctor in attendance followed her gaze.

She cleared her throat and stumbled over a few words before taking a deep breath to try to calm herself, and then she began again, although there was a temporary tremor in her voice for several moments before she completely regained her composure.  She was thankful that she had notes because she needed them to get restarted, but she was soon back into the depths of her lecture although she dared not look at him again.

The Q&A lasted for about twenty minutes, and her answers were quick and full of the knowledge her years of experience had afforded her, and suddenly it was over, and there was a deadly pause that seemed to go on forever.  One person stood up and started clapping.  It was Sherlock.   His applause was quickly drowned out by the sounds of chairs being moved as everyone stood up and began clapping.  It wasn’t a thunderous applause.  It wasn’t as if she had given a great performance in a play.  It was, however, a steady applause of respect for a presentation well done.  She smiled and said “thank you” into the microphone before leaving the stage platform.  One of the doctors rushed up to offer her his arm, and she was very quickly surrounded by men and women giving more accolades and asking questions.  Sherlock stayed back.  This wasn’t his moment; it was hers, and he wasn’t going to steal any limelight from her.

As soon as she could, she made her way over to him. “Well, Mr. Holmes.  Look at you.”

“Doctor Hooper.” He said, and they smiled to each other.

“I didn’t think you were coming.”

“You cut me to the quick.  I wouldn’t miss this for a level ten case with Scotland Yard.” He insisted.

“Yes you would.” She countered.

“You know me too well.” He agreed. He leaned down close. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Only enough to take the edge off.”

“I think you’d best sit down and get some food in you.” he said as he pulled out her chair for her.

“Are those bruises on your hands?” she asked. “Have you been fighting?”

“More of a slight altercation.” He insisted.  His hands did hurt a little, and he would put ice on them later.

Mike Stamford was at their table, and he greeted Sherlock and eyed the couple.  Whatever his observations, however, he kept them to himself and carried on as if this were a perfectly normal occurrence, which he knew it wasn’t.  He had had suspicions that there might be something more between the two for a while, but he could not quite be sure why.  Certainly he never saw any public displays of affection when he had seen them together, but there was an ease of familiarity they displayed around each other.  The way Sherlock dressed on this night, however, was confirmation enough, but he would keep it to himself. 

That Sherlock would attend the RSM function was unusual but not because he was never invited.  In fact, he was always sent a personal invitation from St. Bartholomew’s as he was one of their patrons.  He had never attended before, and Molly was unaware of his patronage, but no one gave it a second thought that one of Bart’s patrons should be socializing with the evening’s featured speaker.

Throughout the meal Molly continued to receive congratulations on her presentation and someone sent over a bottle of champagne.  Towards the end of the dinner and most of a bottle of champagne later, the music of Tony Bennett began to fill the room.  “Dr. Hooper, may I have this dance?” he asked. He leaned closer and said, “I have been schooling you. Time to prove it.”

Sherlock pulled out Molly’s chair for her as she stood up, and he took her hand, slowly leading her to the dance floor.  His eyes brimmed with admiration for her, and he smiled so gently that it nearly melted her in front of all her colleagues.  “Did I mention how lovely you look tonight?” he said quietly.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Molly, Molly, Molly.” He said simply, but then he winked at her and pulled her close for the slow dance. 

“You’re holding me awfully close for being in public.” She mused.

“I think if I don’t hold you up that you may fall down.  Champagne goes too quickly to your head.” He said. “Are people staring?”

“Probably wondering who is that terribly handsome man dancing with the pathologist.”

“You think I’m handsome?” he asked as if he’d never been called the word before.

“You don’t think I was just attracted to you just for your brains, do you?” she smiled, and he grinned, his eyes crinkling with delight at her.  Damn.  That only made him more handsome.  She loved his eye crinkles when he smiled genuinely.

“Do you think they recognize me?” he asked.

“I almost didn’t and I know you.” She said.  “Thank you for coming, Sherlock. It means a lot to me.”

That made him smile again, and the eye crinkles fanned out again.  “I assume the next step will be publishing your research.”

“The RSM has already asked me to submit it.” She said.

“The first of many, I assume.” He said.

“I hope so.” She replied.

He was clearly proud of her but somehow could not quite say the exact words. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“No you didn’t. “

“Not true.” He insisted. “I’ve always known you were very intelligent.  One could hardly be doing your job if one wasn’t.  I’m completely chuffed that you have taken these new steps in your career.  So how long do you have to put on appearances and stay here?”

Her desired stay was for one more dance with him, and then they quietly made their exit.  He had yet to tell her anything of his day.  She was high on the adrenalin of her achievement, and as soon as they got into a cab she began to talk about the event, her plans for the future, and he listened quietly, thoughtfully, wondering if perhaps she had found a new passion and that the passion would outshine him and begin to separate them. He gripped her hand as her animated retelling of the event filled his ears.  He’d never seen her so verbal and confident, and he liked it although he also liked his quiet, demure little Molly.

He took her home, and she insisted that he come up for a late drink, but he was completely sober, and he knew where she wanted the night to end.  He nevertheless was more than happy to escort her to her flat if for nothing more than to make certain she arrived safely. She removed her shoes with a sigh of relief before she reached the door. “Maybe I’ve celebrated too much.” She admitted. 

“Brilliant deduction.” He said. She couldn’t find her key, and his fished his copy out of his pocket and unlocked her door.  He let them in and immediately she threw her arms around his neck and began to kiss him.  He gently pried her off and said, “No, no.  None of that now.”

“You’re not staying the night?”’

“I prefer you completely lucid when I take full advantage of your body,” he said, “and my dear one, you are far from lucid.”

“I don’t mind.” She insisted.

“But I do.” He countered. “There will be no coitus tonight, Doctor Hooper.  Despite my cavalier and acerbic reputation, I am still a gentleman about such things.”

“What about in the morning?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he untangled her again.

“Molly.”

“But we haven’t made love in…” she tried to remember when but her brain was foggy and she could only finish with “ages.  Don’t you still love me, Sherlock?”

“Molly.” His voice was a little sterner.

“I know what you want.  I know how you like it.  I know every inch of you. I have kissed every inch of you.  I know how to make you beg for more and cry out my name.  I adore it when you make those sounds.  Do you remember what happened after we went sky diving?  You really want to say no to that again?”

He caught his breath and swallowed hard, and he loosened his collar. “Perhaps if you had some coffee…”

“Make it strong.  You’ll need your strength.”

He turned her around, moved her hair to the side and unzipped her, and he gave her a couple of gentle pats on her bum to send her on her way .  “I’ll make the coffee.  You put on something…or not.”

She yawned as she padded back to her bedroom, and he loosened his tie and headed to the kitchen, shedding his tuxedo over the back of her sofa.  He once told John that he never wore cuff-links, but on this night he had.  He removed them and put them in his pocket, then rolled up his sleeves.  A few minutes later the coffee was made, but there was no sign of Molly.  He walked back to her bedroom and found her in her pyjamas but curled up on top of the bed asleep.  The night’s adrenaline and alcohol had taken their toll, which is exactly what he had expected would happen.  He pulled her covers over her, stroked her hair away from her face and sweetly kissed her cheek. “I am very proud of you, Molly Hooper.”

He was relieved that she was asleep, and he hoped that she would stay asleep.  Although he was certain he would have performed to their mutual satisfaction, what he really wanted was some downtime.  He made himself a cup of coffee and sat down on her sofa.  He removed his shoes and socks, tie and vest, then undid the top buttons of his shirt.  He had given himself no time to decompress from his own adventures earlier in the day.  He felt that the most significant case of his career had come to an end, and he suddenly felt very alone with it.  He had never told Molly why he had been late, and he had yet to follow up with John or Lestrade.  He checked his watch.  It was too late to ring John and find out what happened after Lestrade had arrived.  He was sorry not to have had dinner with John and thought he would have to schedule a meal with him as soon as possible.

He didn’t want to be alone, but he knew that returning to Baker Street would only compound his feelings of isolation.  He fetched a blanket from the hall closet and then stretched out on her sofa.  He was alone despite Molly being in the next room.  He was alone in his own victory.  He never liked to celebrate a victory on a large case by himself.  Had he stayed with Lestrade earlier, he and John would likely have gone out for their Chinese dinner.  Nothing said “end of case” like a meal with his best friend.  Not once on this evening, however, had he mentioned to Molly about the case as the entire evening had focused on her.  He wasn’t used to deferring the spotlight from himself to someone else.  He liked that she was receiving due attention, but the narcissistic side of him was slightly annoyed the world wasn’t revolving around him.  He shook his head and scolded himself.  Life didn’t revolve around him then nor did it ever.  The Ukrainian girls had taught him that.  In fact, the whole case with the girls had taught him that there were bigger issues. The cleverest man in the room might not be a man at all but a woman.  Molly had clearly outshone him that evening. 

He knew he could move himself to her bedroom and get a more comfortable sleep in her bed.  He wasn’t afraid of taking advantage of her reduced capacity.  He simply wanted his own space that night.   He pulled the blanket over him and shut off the light, but he did not fall asleep immediately.  He wondered how Ionna and Anichka were getting on.  He hadn’t received any communication from them, and his heart ached a bit.  He slept two hours and was gone into the London blue twilight before Molly awoke.

 Somehow he always ended up alone.


	18. Chapter 18

 

 ** _There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them._   **Andre Gide

 

Mrs. Hudson often heard Sherlock practicing his violin as she was preparing his morning tea.  While she didn’t have a particular appreciation for Bach, who was his favorite composer for keeping his skills nimble, she did have an appreciation for his skill, and it always made her smile to hear him play.  It never bothered her in the slightest perhaps because he generally only practiced in the morning and generally stopped once he was took his tea.  On this day, however, she did not bring him his morning tea.  Sherlock heard the tray being set down, and he sensed something different, something familiar and not.  He stopped playing immediately and turned to face the person.

“Billy.” Sherlock was genuinely surprised.  He hadn’t heard from Bill Wiggins for a few months, not since before he had entered drug rehabilitation.  Before him now stood a man he almost didn’t recognize.  Bill was clean-shaven and neatly although casually dressed.  Gone were the dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin color had pinked up a bit.  He was still remarkably thin, but Sherlock attributed that to a high metabolism.  He had seen Bill eat, and Bill could store a lot of food in his belly.

“Mrs. Hudson was bringing it up but I said I would do it. She didn’t mind. Hope you don’t either.

“No.” Sherlock insisted.  Sherlock motioned to John’s old chair with his bow.  “I see she’s provided two cups and extra scones.  And you’ve brought… donuts?”

“Glazed.  Your favorite.” Bill said as he held up the little white paper bag.   

Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the idea, and he licked his lips once.  Nevertheless, he suspected this wasn’t a social call.  He put his violin and bow back in their case and then nearly flopped back into his own chair.  He was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. “Did Mrs. Hudson ask you to refresh her supply of herbal soothers?”

“I’m not exactly in that business anymore.”Bill said. 

This was a bit of a delicate moment, and Sherlock leaned forward and poured out tea for both of them.  “So how are you, Billy.  Tell me what’s happened.”

“Got out of hospital just before Christmas, then went into rehab and was there for two months. Thank you again for your help arranging that.  Been clean for almost four months now.”  Bill sipped his tea and watched as Sherlock opened the bag of donuts and quickly bit into one of the glazed yeast donuts. 

“Do you still go to meetings, Shezza?” 

“I left Shezza behind a long time ago.” Sherlock insisted.  “I don’t go as often as I should,” he added. 

“Tell me, do you ever feel the pull to go back to drugs?” Bill asked.

“Do you?” Sherlock deflected.

“Every day.” Bill said.  “Does it get better?”

“With time.” Sherlock said.  “The further away you get from it, the fainter the voice calls, but it can be back on your doorstep in a moment, like a wolf always trying to find a way into your house.” 

“Bet you’ve beaten the wolf.” Bill said.  “You’re Sherlock Holmes.  If you can’t win that battle, there’s no hope for us mere mortals.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Billy.” Sherlock said thoughtfully.  “I am still a man just like any other, subject to the cravings of chemical addiction as much as anyone else. Don’t put me on such a pedestal lest I fall, and I can fall let me assure you.  At any rate, that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

“No.” Bill said quietly. “I’m here to make amends.”

“Amends? Whatever for?” Sherlock asked.

Bill hesitated for a while as he tried to figure out where to start.  “Sometimes I’ve got a big mouth.  But I look up to you, you know that. I would never, never do anything to hurt you.  You know that.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he felt a confession about to hit him. “Go on.”

“It’s just that sometimes I brag on you a bit, brag that I know you and that we’re friends.  I mean, I don’t anymore, but when I was using drugs, I bragged a lot.  Stupid stuff.  Used to go on and on about you.  Made some of me mates a bit jealous, I think, and some of them wasn’t the best company, you know. I could deduce them a bit.  Not like you, of course.  I would never, never compare myself to you.  I don’t deserve to be in the same room with you when it comes to that stuff.”

Sherlock sighed deeply and rolled his eyes.  “Billy.”

“I’m getting to the point.” Bill said.  “I think it was on account of my bragging that someone done your flat in last year.  Maybe they just thought you was an easy target on account of all I said.  I have some suspects.  One is dead, one is—“

“Not good enough.” Sherlock said as he stood up.

“But I really am sorry.” Bill said.  “I know I’ve got a big mouth.”

“No, no, no.” Sherlock said.  “It’s not a good enough reason for someone to break into my flat.  Don’t burden your conscience with such thoughts.  It’s a waste of mental energy.” 

Bill opened his jacket and pulled out a tattered large envelope.  It was the classified envelope that had been stolen during the break-in.  He handed it to Sherlock. “I did my own investigations, Sherlock.  Had a lot of time to think while I was in rehab.  I can’t put the pieces together as fast as you, but once I got out I started looking for the ones I thought were most suspect.  Like I said, one was dead.  Two have disappeared, but there was one…and I got this off of him.  He said he got it from someone else.  Not sure if he was lying or not.”

“And where is this person now?”

“Prison.”

“What for?”

“Knifed someone.” He said.

Sherlock tossed the envelope onto his desk and paced his floor for a few minutes.

“What can I do to make it right?” Bill asked, finally breaking the silence.

Sherlock stopped and turned to him.  “You?  You can’t make this right.  It’s not your fault.  I already told you that.  At any rate, insurance covered everything.  The only thing that really hurt was the violin’s destruction.  I was particularly bonded to that one, and although I have been working with the other one since then, it’s not quite the same.  I suppose it’s like what one feels like when they lose a spouse.  Oh, you can get married again, but it’s not the same when you have dearly loved the first one.”

“I heard you playing.  It was lovely.” Bill said.  “But a violin is like a woman.  The more you caress her and love her, the more she will respond to you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.  The last person he needed violin metaphors from was Bill Wiggins.  “You play the violin.” He said dryly.

“Piano.” Bill said. “Same rules apply.”

Sherlock sat down again and leaned forward in his chair. “Bill, it is not the first time my flat has been burgled and probably won’t be the last.  It’s what happens when you make a lot of enemies.  As long as they don’t torch the place I can manage a little inconvenience.”

“But I see you’ve installed a security system and I assume we’re being filmed even now.” Bill said.

“I’d like to know who the perpetrator is the next time.” Sherlock said.  “Hopefully there won’t be a next time for a long time, if ever.  Now, tell me more about your musical background and don’t be boring.”

Bill had been training to be a concert pianist at one time before the pressures or performing and competitions turned his casual drug use to a daily habit that eventually overtook him until he sold his Steinway baby grand for drugs.  Bill was actually something akin to a musical savant.  He had only to hear a piece of music once and it was committed to his memory.  He could play it immediately without missing a note, without ever seeing sheet music, although he could read sheet music without effort.  It was as plain to him as reading a novel.  His gifts, however, did not replace his need for constant practice and lessons.  Selling his prized Steinway, however, was a turning point for what had been a promising career in music.  He had already determined he would never play again, but as he opened up to Sherlock, Sherlock encouraged him to start playing again, even if only for himself because music was very healing.  “Perhaps you will find your voice again.” 

“What if I don’t?  What if it’s just gone?”

“If I can get you a piano, will you play again?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t want you to buy me a piano.” Bill said.

“I didn’t offer to buy one.” Sherlock said.  “People with old upright grands can hardly give them away. No one wants them anymore, not even the charity shops.  I’m sure we can find one for you, and I can find someone to move it.  Where are you living these days?”

“Little flat in government assistance housing.  Got me a part-time job in bicycle shop.  It’s not much but it’s legit, and I’m not sleeping on the streets or dealing or using.”

The two men talked for nearly two hours before Bill checked his watch and said he had to leave for work.  They shook hands at the end, and Sherlock patted him on the back.  By that evening an antique but working upright piano was delivered to Bill’s address.

Sherlock’s violin practice that morning, however, had been for a specific reason.  He had scheduled a much overdue lesson with Fabrizzi.  He had not had a violin lesson with Maestro Fabrizzi for several months and made his apologies again when seeing his old teacher who took him to task immediately.  Sherlock submitted quietly to the verbal scolding, then began to play one of the Bach solo partitas chosen by Fabrizzi, the Violin solo No. 1 in B minor, BWV 1002: IV, Double Presto.  Sherlock immediately launched into it.  It was not his favorite piece.  He found it tedious for the sake of being purposefully tedious, which is how he felt about much of Bach and sometimes Mozart.    Whereas some violinists relished the challenge of it, he did not, but it wasn’t that he wasn’t capable. 

“Fighting.  Fighting.” Fabrizzo shook his head, and Sherlock stopped immediately.  His brow was beaded with sweat. “You’re fighting it, Sherlock, and you’re better than that. Start over.”

Sherlock immediately began again.  He didn’t have sheet music to prompt him as he had long ago memorized it, but knowing it by rote and allowing the music to come alive through him were two different things.

“Stop.  Begin again.” Fabrizzi said about one minute into the piece, and Sherlock dutifully started a third time, but Fabrizzi very quickly said “Stop! Just stop.”

Sherlock stopped again.  He was a little frustrated now.  “What am I doing wrong?”

“It’s not a wrestling match, Sherlock.  You fight the music, and the music will fight you back, and it’s not a battle you can win without sacrificing the music.  The violin is not the instrument.  It’s you.  The violin is only the voice.  It is nothing without you.  You know that.”

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed, but he winced a bit at the idea.

“Then why do you fight the music?  I can hear it.  Any trained ear can hear it.  It’s almost like nails on a chalkboard.   You played so beautifully at Christmas.  My granddaughter showed me the YouTube video. Playing for your special one, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock admitted.  There was no use trying to deny anything regarding music.  Fabrizzi could see through any lie.

“Why can’t you play this piece like that too?”

“That was Christmas music.  This is… this is Bach, and it’s a double presto.  It’s more like playing scales.”

“No!  It’s no different.” Frabrizzi insisted.  “It’s only different in here.”  He tapped Sherlock’s forehead.  “Do you ever play for her when you two are alone?”

“No.” Sherlock admitted.

“Why  not?”

It had never occurred to him to play for her when they were alone together.  “The violin is too much of a narcissist.  It demands all the attention.  It’s the star and doesn’t share the limelight.” Sherlock said. “I serenaded her when I thought she was up in her office.  Had she been directly in front of me, I couldn’t have done it, but you should know that since the video went viral that I’ve had offers to guest solo with several orchestras.  However I have turned them all down.”

“Because?”

“Because my work is my focus.  My music is my release, if you will, and I don’t wish to get the two reversed.” He shrugged, but there was a slight hint of regret in his voice.  “At any rate, I’d never be taken seriously as a musician.  I’d always just be the detective who happens to play the violin.  I think it is better to be remembered for doing one thing really well.”

Fabrizzi laid his old hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “You have a musical gift, Sherlock.  It’s part of that magnificent brain.  I can’t make you take your music to the next level, which would include professional public performances, but I do encourage you not to shut that door entirely, and that even if you choose to never go that route, you will continue to study and practice as if you were.” Before Sherlock could protest Fabrizzi added, “And you are to see me on the first Monday of every month from now until I leave this Earth.  Do you understand? Put it in your calendar, and don’t be late, and don’t reschedule.  Just be here.”

“Yes, Maestro.” Sherlock said.  More discipline.  It irritated a little and yet he knew he deserved it. 

“Now start again, and at least try to pretend you’re serenading her. Make love to her with the music.”  Fabrizzi rolled his eyes and went back to his violin making.  He didn’t have to watch Sherlock.  He only had to listen. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to align his thoughts with the music that seemed anything but romantic. _Molly._   Stored images and memories of her in his mind palace flashed rapidly through his brain. _Molly, my Molly._   He didn’t quite know how to reconcile her with the music he was being asked to play.  He had to find his place, his balance, his merger of the two.  The double presto reminded him a bit of a flurry of bees in a state of hyperactivity.   He opened his eyes but hung his head in defeat.  “I can’t do it.  I don’t know how.  I’m sorry.”

Fabrizzi turned back to Sherlock and took the violin and bow.  “Forgive me if I speak frankly. This music is not impressionistic in style until you make it so. To me it is about having sex.  It’s like the electrical storm in my brain and body when I make love to my wife.  Listen to the storm.”  He played a little of it in a masterful purity as if he had played it every day of his life.  “Fevered excitement, passion.  The brain firing on all cylinders, the body tingling, charging.  Listen.”  He played a little more.  “You have to forget who wrote it.  You have to forget the style period.  You have to forget music theory. You have to infuse it with your own experiences.  Do you understand?  It isn’t just a piece for you to labor through like some technical exercise. ” He returned the violin and bow to Sherlock.  “Play it again.”

A little light went on in Sherlock’s mind.  He wouldn’t infuse his own sexual experiences into the music.  No, that was Fabrizzi’s version, and it had been too much information as far as Sherlock was concerned.  But he did understand the metaphor of the electrical storm.  He understood the storm that raged in his brain when bits of seemingly random information began assembling themselves at breakneck speed in his brain to form an answer to a puzzle.  _That_ he knew and could play.   He launched into the piece again.  Fabrizzi went back to his work and listened to the one he considered his prize pupil, and he smiled.  Sherlock was his prized pupil not for his skill but for his untapped potential, and on this day one little step of progress was being made.

While Sherlock was making progress, however, Ford’s health was not.  Although Sherlock kept in touch with Ford daily, and although Ford was always gracious and upbeat, Sherlock sensed that with each passing day, Ford was not progressing towards better health despite his positive endorsements of his new diet regime.  Mycroft was not able to secure a bed for Ford in the alternative treatment hospital in Mexico although there was a possibility that by the summer there might be space available.  In the meantime, Ford was doing his best to improve his health naturally.  Indeed his color looked better.  His hair was growing back although it was greyer than before.  He told Sherlock he wouldn’t dye his hair as that would simply put unwanted and unnatural chemicals into his body.  He really did look better, and his eyes were vibrant.  Yet Sherlock sensed it was what was not being said between them that was so critical.

Ford never spoke of the future, of plans with Madeline when he was well again.   Sherlock thought perhaps it was because Ford was so focused on the present, of just getting through each day that he didn’t have the energy to plan and dream of a new future free of disease.  This is what concerned him. When Sherlock mentioned that Mycroft has managed to clear up the passport issue and that Ford was free to visit England at any time, Ford simply said, “Yes, I’ll have to do that.”  There was, however, no real enthusiasm behind his words even though he smiled over the Skype chat.  Sherlock recognized fake smiles and would normally rattle off deductions to unnerve the person and force the smile to fade.  However, he said nothing to Ford.  He tried to offer encouragements, but he wondered if his own words sounded as insincere as Ford’s.  It was like a gentle table tennis match where neither was being willing to win or outdo the other.

Sherlock never attempted to infuse Ford with false energy.  He only kept pace with him, and he listened. Ford seemed determined to challenge Sherlock to think beyond what he had been taught as scientific truth in school.  He wanted Sherlock to examine science all over again based on the laws of science and not on academic conjecture or theory.

“It’s not going to work.”Sherlock insisted. “You’re not going to convert me, brother.”

Ford laughed a little.  “You think that’s my objective?”

“Hasn’t it been?  You’ve been proselytizing the hell out of me almost since we first met.”

“Interesting choice of words.” Ford said.

“Yes, I thought you’d pick up on that.” Sherlock responded. 

“I think I may have said similar words to my wife when we first met.” Ford smiled.  “And look what happened.”

Madeline came into view then with a drawing for Sherlock.  She held it up for him to see while at the same time trying to crawl into her father’s lap.  Ford was wincing at her touch.  “No, Madeline.  Not now.”  Nevertheless she worked her way into his lap, and he lightly wrapped his arms around her.  “I think your Uncle Sherlock may be coming to see you very soon.” He said.

Sherlock startled at the revelation.  He had no such plans, but Ford was saying something else.  He was saying that Sherlock would have to come.  The two men locked eyes, and they understood.

“How soon will I be coming?” Sherlock asked.

“Tomorrow?  Please!  Please!” Madeline asked hopefully.

“Oh no, poppet.  Not tomorrow, but very, very soon.  Maybe next time he’ll bring your uncle Mycroft and your grandfather and grandmother.  You will ask our father again, won’t you Sherlock?”

“Of course.” Sherlock said.

It wasn’t but a few moments after the Skype call ended when Sherlock received a text message from Ford.

ON MY WAY TO HOSPITAL. LAST TIME AT HOME. COME SOON. FH

It hit Sherlock like a blow to the stomach.  He knew intuitively that Ford was declining, but that was far more sudden than he expected.

Sherlock immediately went to Mycroft’s house on the northwest side of London.  Despite Mycroft’s relatively close proximity to Baker Street, Sherlock didn’t often visit his brother’s residence even though he had a key.  Mycroft had always said that Sherlock could use it as a bolt hole if necessary, but Sherlock had never done that as it seemed too obvious a place.  Also, Mycroft didn’t generally entertain, not even family.  His kitchen was never used for cooking although he might put a kettle on for tea.  Anthea went to the residence twice per week to pick up and deliver his dry cleaning, and a housekeeper came every day to keep the place completely and obsessively immaculate.

When Sherlock arrived in the early evening, Mycroft was less than delighted to see his brother.  “Make it quick, Sherlock.  I’ve had a long day.”  Mycroft had a brandy in his hand.  He always had a drink in the evenings after work.

“Yes, I’m sure the hours at the Diogenes Club were quite taxing.” Sherlock said.

“For your information, I have been in security meetings all day.  Deadly boring. Lady Smallwood sends her regards.”

Lady Smallwood. Her case had taken his life on a dark course.  Although none of the circumstances of how the case finished were her fault, the reminder of her name always set Sherlock a bit on edge.  “Yes, well I will attempt brevity.” Sherlock said.

Sherlock explained Ford’s condition and that he had requested Mycroft to come.  Mycroft carried no sentiment towards Ford, but he always knew it would be terribly bad form not to meet him at least once, especially now that Ford’s time was so short.  Of course he would do the proper thing, he promised.

Sherlock arrived at his parent’s house mid-morning the following day just as his mother was finishing the washing up from breakfast.  He gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek, and helped himself to left-over scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam.

“Dad around?” he asked.

“He’s out in the garden.” His mother said. “I don’t think this is a social call, is it, Sherlock?  You never just show up without a reason although I wish you would once in a while. Or did you just come to raid my pantry?  Coffee or tea this morning?”

“Tea.” He said, and she immediately put the kettle on.

“So take your coat off and go and fetch your father.” She said.

“I didn’t come to see dad.” He said. “I came to see you.”

“Oh?” She was slightly surprised, and yet her eyes narrowed slightly.  Sherlock may have been an adult but he was still her boy, and her motherly instincts knew when something was up.  “What do you want this time? More children to be fostered? Can’t possibly be money as you’re earning a decent living.  Is Mycroft being difficult again?  Do you need advice for you and Molly?”

Her questions hit him so rapidly that he blinked for a moment as he sorted them.  “None of the above. I need to talk to you about Ford.”

“Oh.” She said simply. “I don’t believe that is any of your concern, Sherlock.” She said, and she returned to her washing. 

“Mummy—“

“I will not discuss this further.  If you are thinking of coercing me into something I am against, I will not tolerate it.” She said. “I’m sorry you wasted a trip out here.”

“It’s been the elephant in the room all our lives, mother!” Sherlock said crisply.  He felt like shouting, but he never raised his voice at her.  Whereas he might at times argue loudly with his father, although the occasion was rare, he did not dare raise his voice at his mother.

She turned sharply to him.  “Don’t you dare, Sherlock.  Don’t you dare.”

But he did dare to press further.  He had a goal in being there.  “Mummy, Father has another son, and you don’t have the right to deny him the opportunity to see his son.”

“I’ve never denied him that, Sherlock.” She said bitterly.

“But you have,” Sherlock insisted. “Because he would never go against your wishes, and your wishes were that that part of your lives would not come back to you.  But he has a son.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that.  I have been aware of it since before you were born, in case your math has failed you.  I have always insisted that he take responsibility for that choice, and he has done that.  He contributed faithfully to his monthly support, even worked two jobs for several years when you were little. He has seen pictures of Ford as Ford grew up.  He sent birthday cards, paid for all his education.  He even paid his legal fees when he had all that trouble back when.  Do you think me a fool that I don’t know all of this?  Do you?” she asked.

“Of course not.” He said.  He was very close to getting a dressing down and knew it. “Ford has asked to see him. Actually, he’s asked to see both of you.  He has suspected you hated him, however.”

“I never hated him.  I only hated the idea of him, but it’s not his fault what happened.” She said.

“Then let Dad go to him.  Don’t deny him his other son.”

“Oh Sherlock, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“In a microcosm I do.” Sherlock said. It was at that moment that the kettle indicated was done boiling, and Sherlock began to make his tea.  “Molly never told me she was pregnant.” He said quietly. “She was going to possibly raise it on her own because I have expressed my opinion that I don’t consider myself father material.  Even so, when she lost it, I was completely denied that whole experience, and possibly what will be my only child is now buried in Hampstead Cemetery.  I shall never know one moment of him.”

“Oh Sherlock.”  She patted his hand in sympathy.

“What I’m saying is - do not deny Dad that experience, especially now.”

“Why especially now?” she asked.

“Because Ford is dying.  He only has days to live now, and Dad shouldn’t be forced to only visit a grave like me.” Before she could respond to that revelation, he added, “And you must go with him.”

“What good will come of it?”

“Closure.” Sherlock insisted.  “It’s time to rip the forty-year-old bandage off, Mummy, and take a look at what you’ve feared all these years.  It’s time to let go of that fear.” Instantly her eyes brimmed with tears, and he gently touched her cheek, then kissed it.  “Mycroft is ordering a plane.  He’ll send a car for you in the morning. Everything is arranged. Please get on the plane with Dad.”

The change in her was immediate.  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.  “We will be packed and ready.”

Sherlock returned to London and immediately made his way to St. Bartholomews.  If he was going to gone for a several days, he wanted to alert Molly, but finding her at Barts was not easy.  She was not in her office, the morgue or the labs. Even a trip to the canteen did not produce her.

WHERE ARE YOU? SH

Her reply was delayed by several moments.

JUST FINISHING A MEETING WITH MIKE STAMFORD. ON MY WAY TO THE LABS. MH

He knew where Mike Stamford’s office was, which was two floors up from the labs, and Sherlock was on the opposite side of the hospital.  He wasn’t going to run, but his stride was long and quick.  Even so, she was already at a microscope examining a culture in a Petri dish before he arrived.

“I didn’t reserve lab space for you.” she said without looking up.  “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Don’t need it.” He said.  “Molly.”  When she didn’t look up, he said her name again, and then she turned to him.  “Molly, my brother is on his deathbed.”  He said quietly.  “The family is going to see him.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She recognized, however, that she was not included as “family.”  Technically she wasn’t.  Being engaged gave her no special privileges as family. “Would you like me to go too?” she asked as a way of testing the waters of where she stood with him as _family_.

“Stay or go.  It doesn’t matter.  He’ll be dead in a few days anyhow.” Sherlock quipped.

That wasn’t quite the answer she was hoping for.  She was hoping he would invite her to be by his side, to be a shoulder to lean on, but he did not.  Was it simply his lack of communication skills?  She felt if she didn’t go and be there as a support that it would reflect badly on her as his fiancé.  On the other hand, if she did go, would she be little more than a third wheel on the cart?

He suddenly winced at his own words. He was being terribly impersonal about a brother he had grown to love. “Sorry. That was bad form.  I meant…I would personally appreciate it very much if you were there. You are practically family.”

“Am I?” she asked. 

He grimaced for a moment.  He hated when he said something that brought caused doubt in her voice. Somehow he always seemed to miss the mark at important moments.  He still struggled with sentiment and emotion, always trying to keep them in control, and it was a battle he was losing more often.

“Molly, don’t.  This is a difficult time for me, and whatever you think is or isn’t going on between us, this isn’t the time to deal with it.  We can deal with it after.  Right now I have a brother to say goodbye to and to bury, and I can’t deal with much else.”

 “Sorry.  I don’t know why I said that.  It’s all right. I understand.” She insisted as she gently touched his arm. “Of course I’ll come. I’m here for you.  Whatever you need or don’t need. You know that.”

“Mycroft has commandeered a private jet.  I’ll send you the details when I get back to Baker Street.”  He looked around quickly to make certain they were in private and then gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.  He touched her cheek tenderly with his gloved hand and smiled a little to her.  There was pain behind his eyes, and she could see it. “I’ll see you soon.” He was about to walk out of the labs, but he looked back. “For what it’s worth, you’re not _practically_.  You are so much more. I hope you know that.”

Molly arrived via government car at the small airstrip just northwest of London where the private jet was waiting. Mycroft and his parents were there, but Sherlock was not.  When she enquired, Mycroft responded, “My brother took a flight last night.  He’ll be waiting for us at hospital.”

It was a somber and brief flight where there was little to no talk except for responses to the cabin steward.  To make matters worse, it was overcast for the entire flight, and the passengers had no real sense of direction or the enjoyment of seeing the Channel or the European mainland. 

It was raining lightly in Munich when the jet landed, and the passengers and their luggage were immediately loaded into a black government SUV with tinted windows.  That was all about Mycroft’s security rather than theirs, but they took it in stride as if it were normal. 

They arrived at the hospital at just past noon and were escorted to a waiting room not far from Ford’s room.  It was there that they met Birgit who explained that Sherlock was in the room with Ford and Madeline, and she immediately went to get him.

Sherlock surprised them all when he came out of the room dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown.  He had obviously spent the night on the sofa in Ford’s hospital room.  His hair was a little rumpled, and he looked sleep weary and needed a shave, but in his arms was Madeline.  She was dressed smartly, having been brought there by Birgit for part of the day.  Sherlock was unusually effervescent with Madeline as he jostled her slightly playfully, his eyes bright as he smiled to keep her encouraged at meeting so many new faces.

“Madeline, this is your grandfather and your grandmother.”

She clung shyly to Sherlock.   

“Isn’t she just lovely.” His father spoke.  “Madeline, if you like, you can call me Didus, and you can call her Babusya.”  When Sherlock raised a brow at that idea, he added, “We got used to it after Ionna and Anichka, and we liked the names.”  He took her little hand between his fingers and shook her hand gently.  “A pleasure to meet you, Madeline Holmes.  My last name is Holmes too.”

If there was any reluctance to accept the child as her grandchild, his mother showed no signs of it when she was confronted with flesh and blood.  “Oh Sherlock, she’s got curls like yours.”

“We’re from England,” his father continued.  “Would you like to visit England some day?  We have a nice house out in the country with lots of farm animals nearby.”

Madeline gave him a quick side glance but then turned her face into Sherlock’s neck.

Molly watched in amazement at the complete ease with which Sherlock handled and interacted with his niece, as if being with children was the most natural thing for him.  Although she had often experienced his tender gentleness, she had never seen it expressed towards a child and it was entirely heartwarming if not also slightly surreal.

Sherlock carried her over to Mycroft who hadn’t come forward.  Children were not his milieu.  “Madeline, this is your Uncle Mycroft, but you can call him Uncle Mike.”

Mycroft pursed his lips at the latter idea, but he didn’t contradict Sherlock.  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Madeline.”

She looked at him briefly, then noticed Molly. “That’s Molly.” She said.  She scrunched her eyes and wrinkled her nose at Sherlock with an infectious grin of childish delight.  “When you get married, can I be the flower girl?”

That broke the ice a little and everyone chuckled, but then Birgit took the child from Sherlock’s arms.  “Come on, poppet, let’s go get you some lunch.  They’ll still be here when we get back.”  She set the child down and took her hand, and began to lead her away, realizing also that the family needed time together.

Sherlock’s mother turned to him.  “Tell us how he is today.  What should we expect when we go in?”

“Why don’t you turn around and find out for yourselves.” Ford’s voice said from behind them. 

There was a collective gasp to see him up and about. Ford leaned heavily on a walker and moved forward with a very slow shuffle.  He was terribly weak, gaunt and jaundiced, but he smiled kindly, and there was still a sparkle of life in his eyes.

“What the hell!” Sherlock was horrified, but Ford raised his hand to stop him.

“I refuse to meet my father or my other brother laying down.  You’ll forgive my attire, of course.” He looked directly at his father. “You’re taller than I thought.”

Mr. Holmes said nothing except, “Oh my boy” as he approached Ford and gently wrapped his arms around him.  Everyone else stayed back and allowed them their moments. A father and son meeting in person for the first time.  Neither quite knew what to say, and so they said very little, just words said so quiet that others couldn’t hear. 

Ford pulled back.  He didn’t have much energy and had to use it wisely.  He looked at Mycroft.  “You must be Mycroft.  Sherlock tells me you’re the smarter one but only slightly, but not as smart as me, I suspect.” Ford extended his hand with a wink and smile.  He had a slight tremor.

Mycroft stepped forward and shook Ford’s hand politely, but when Mycroft tried to release his grip, Ford held on.  “If you are waiting for an embrace, you should know that I’m not the type.  It’s nothing personal.  I don’t hug anyone.”

“Not true.” Ford’s eyes narrowed.  “You have hugged _her_.  In fact, she picked out your suit for you for this trip.  She helps pick out all your suits, but you’re not intimate with her.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, of course not.  She’s my assistant.” Mycroft said.  “And I only hugged her once, and very briefly.  Actually she hugged me on my birthday. How did you know?”

“I told you, I’m smarter, and my brain is faster, but I will soon pass that title to you.” Ford said.  “Sherlock also mentioned that you tried to get me into the clinic in Mexico.  It was a long shot, but thank you for trying.”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I can’t actually move mountains.” 

Ford’s knees suddenly buckled and he groaned loudly as he tried to catch himself, and Sherlock rushed forward and bolstered his brother.  “You should not be out of bed!”

“It’s all right, Sherlock.  It’s the surge.  Let me enjoy it while I can.” He said as Sherlock helped him to a chair.

“The surge?  What’s the surge?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

“It’s a burst of energy that terminal patients sometimes get at the very end.” Molly said.  They all looked at her a bit horrified, and she realized she may have spoken out of turn. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, Molly.” Ford said.  “For a while things were looking up, my liver tumors were shrinking.  Had they dissipated entirely I would have been a candidate for a liver transplant, and Sherlock even offered to share his with me, especially since he had just recently grown a new one.  Turns out he's a match, but almost overnight things changed.  You could play connect the dots with all the tumors in my body.  I don’t know what picture they’d make, but you could connect them nonetheless.  An ordinary human brain fighting my condition would already be hallucinating, but I’m still able to fight it even as the toxins in my blood are overwhelming me.  At any rate, that’s why you’re all here, to say hello and goodbye all at once.  Not much quality time, but I am blessed by it nonetheless.”  He turned to Mrs. Holmes and smiled kindly.  “How often I’ve wondered about you, Mrs. Holmes.  I am so honored to finally meet you.  I’m not sure what to call you.”

“Wicked stepmother I suppose.” she said with pursed lips.  She meant it, however, as that’s how she suddenly felt.

He smiled gently to her.  “I’ve never thought of you as such. I’ve imagined you as a lovely English rose, and so you are. You should know that my mother always regretted what happened, but she was too ashamed to ever meet you again.  Please know that she never forgave herself but that she always wished for your forgiveness.”

She was a little speechless, which was rare, but she was clearly touched.  Whatever ill will she had towards him or his mother melted away instantly, and she now felt terribly guilt for having harbored such ill will for so long. “Oh tosh.  It was so long ago.” She gently stroked his hand as if somehow she were touching her own flesh and blood. “How are you feeling?”  She knew it sounded too obvious, but she couldn’t think of anything else to ask him.

“About as good as I look. For the record, I used to be quite good looking.” He said.   He smiled a little at his attempt at humor. There was something about him in that smile that looked just like his father and even more so like Sherlock.  They could all see it.  “Sherlock tells me you have been into organic foods for the past few decades.  I would like to have tapped some of your knowledge sooner.  But now it is too late, of course, although I did give it a go for several months.  I do believe that had I not been so far down the path with this illness that organics could have reversed my condition.”

“There have been many case studies to prove it.” She said, again feeling she wasn’t making proper conversation and feeling at loss for words. 

Ford took a deep sigh.  His energy reserves were minimal and he was pushing himself hard.  “I have a little time before I will require another dose of morphine, and then I will be mostly incoherent.  Do keep talking so that I can hear your voices in my dreams.”

Molly bit her lower lip as tears came to her eyes. Sherlock sent her a stern glare and slightly shook his head.  No tears allowed, but he did understand.  She was terribly sentimental and empathetic, qualities he lacked in much measure.  She immediately blinked them back and took a deep but quiet breath.

“Molly.” Ford said, and Molly immediately moved closer and sat next to him. “Sherlock has told me about you, but he failed to describe how truly pretty you are.”  That made her blush.  “And a doctor too.  So there will be another doctor in the family after I am gone. Always good to have at least one in every family, although if Sherlock applied himself, I am quite certain he could easily have a PhD in his future.”

“Now now. None of that.” Sherlock said.

“My brother— _our_ brother could easily do a lot of other things if he chose.” Mycroft said.

“Such as?” Sherlock asked.

“Work with me again.” Mycroft said.

“No.” Sherlock said.

“Boys.” Mrs. Holmes had only to say that word and whatever argument might be starting was immediately quelled.

“Son,” Mr. Holmes said, “What can we do to help you right now?”

“Let’s just keep talking,” Ford insisted.  “Please let me commit your lovely voices to memory.”

The conversation was awkward at first but then began to flow more freely, and for two hours the estranged brother began to get a glimpse of the family that had always excluded him.  There was no ill will between any of them.  There was only an attempt to squeeze as much out of those moments as possible.  When Birgit returned with Madeline, the child was less shy and nervous and began chatting with all of them, almost dominating the scene and even ingratiating herself in Mrs. Holmes’ lap where she was fascinated by her jewelry.   And then just as suddenly it was over.  Ford had used his energy so much so that he out of breath and was unable to stand up.  Although Molly suggested that she would fetch a wheelchair for him, Sherlock instead began to scoop him up gently.  His father moved to help him, but Mycroft said, “No, Dad.  You’ll hurt your back.”  Mycroft moved forward and looked at Sherlock.  “Together on three.”  They gently lifted Ford’s frail body up from the chair carried him back into his room. Mycroft  was clearly moved but wouldn’t admit it.   

Sherlock came out several minutes later and said, “He’s sleeping now. You may as well go get something to eat.

“What about you, son?” his mother asked.

“I’m not leaving him.” Sherlock said.

Although he wouldn’t forthrightly say it, they all understood that he meant time was very short now. They decided as a group that none of them would leave, but Sherlock pulled Birgit aside and said, “It’s time to ring Madeline’s godparents to come fetch her.”  The godparents had been on high alert for a few weeks, and once Birgit called them, they were on the next plane.

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

_**“I had embraced you … long before I hugged you.”** – Sanober Khan_

 

Sherlock leaned down close to Ford.  Ford’s strength was nearly gone, his voice little more than a ragged whisper.  He raised his hand and put it on the back of Sherlock’s neck, holding him close as he whispered in his ear, tears rolling from the outer corners of his eyes, but he kept whispering something that was only for Sherlock, something no one else could hear.  Occasionally he would stop to catch his breath, but his hand didn’t leave the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock grimaced at Ford’s words, at what he was being asked to do.  A dying man’s last requests.  Normally he wouldn’t listen to what he would have considered little more than dribble, but this was Ford, and he felt compelled to listen as long as Ford wished to speak to him.  He had to listen intensely, no filtering.  What he sensed in all of Ford’s words was how much his half-brother had come to love and care about him in a gentle way he’d never known.  Although his nature was to always distrust before trust, he had come to trust Ford completely in the sincerity of brotherly love, and so he continued to listen until he felt Ford’s hand slip from his neck.

Ford  looked directly into his eyes, his voice barely audible.  “Promise.”

Sherlock started to say something, but he couldn’t make himself say the word.

Ford blinked slowly.  He was exhausted. “Promise.”

Sherlock was not one to make a promise lightly which is why he rarely made them. 

Ford sighed deeply, painfully.  “Promise.”

“I promise.” Sherlock said, the words coming from his lips before he could stop them.  Sherlock gently laid his hand on Ford’s cheek. “I promise.”  He kissed Ford tenderly on the brow. “Promise.”

*   *   *

Mr. Holmes sat by his son’s side, his wrinkled, age-spotted hand gently clasping the thin, frail hand of his dying son.  Ford hadn’t awoken for twelve hours.  He was completely calm, his breathing measured, made more so by the heavy amounts of morphine in his system.  It wouldn’t be long now.

Mycroft quietly entered the room with his mother and his father turned to them.  “He should be buried in England.  He’s a Holmes.  He should be with the other Holmes.  You can arrange that, Mike.”

“I’m sorry, but he made no such request, Dad. His wife is buried here, and he’ll be buried beside her.” Mycroft said.

“But he’ll be so far away, and I’m getting too old to be visiting Germany just to see a grave.”

Mrs. Holmes pursed her lips.  “You are not too old, and I will accompany you any time you wish to visit.”

He looked at her, and she managed a little smile.  He knew at that moment that she had completely forgiven him for the first time in nearly forty years.  The son he had born in adultery had become the instrument of healing.  She laid her hand on his shoulder and he reached back and took it, and kissed it.

Six hours later Ford breathed his last having never awoken again.  The Holmes family and the godparents, Patrice and Elle Barrois, were all around the bed, and Madeline was in Sherlock’s arms.

Madeline looked Sherlock in the eyes, her own eyes brimming with huge tears.  “Is daddy gone to Heaven to be with mummy?” she asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock said simply.  He knew there was no point in expressing his personal beliefs, but if there was a Heaven, surely Ford was there.

Her lower lip quavered as tears spilled out and she cried softly, “But I don’t want him to go!”

Sherlock held her tightly to his chest as she began to cry uncontrollably.  There wasn’t a dry eye among the group except for Mycroft who looked vaguely uncomfortable at all the emotion, but he was determined to remain stoic.  He didn’t feel particularly attached to the proceedings.

Sherlock carried Madeline out of the room began to walk the hallway with her, gently rubbing her back while she cried into his shoulder.  Birgit tried to intervene, but he shook his head that he was all right.  He knew that Madeline had partly become attached to him because of his resemblance to her father, and he needed to give her those moments of comfort and familiarity.  “I love you, my darling.  I love you.  Everything’s going to be all right, I promise.”  Tears brimmed his own eyes, and he didn’t want anyone to see them, and he continued to walk down the long corridor.  Even Molly respectfully kept her distance. She too had tears in her eyes. Her tears were not for Ford or the family but for Sherlock’s pain.  She didn’t have to see his tears to know they were there.

The Barrois watched him and gave him space with her, and he walked the hall with her for over an hour, turning her discretely away when her father’s body, under a sheet, was wheeled out of the room.  There was no point in her seeing that.  He held her until she had cried herself to sleep on his shoulder, and he continued to hold her even as his muscles began to ache.

It had been a long time since Sherlock had sat in church for a memorial service.  Ford’s casket was placed center of the altar and had wreaths of beautiful flowers around it almost to the point of obscuring it.  One wreath was from his parents and another signed simply “Mycroft and Sherlock.”  Mycroft hadn’t actually contributed, but Sherlock paid for it and put both their names on it.  Modern Christian songs were sung by soloists.  He thought he vaguely recognized one tune but didn’t know why.  The minister gave a brief but touching sermonette that was about the joy that Ford always had in his life and how he was an inspiration to those whose lives he had touched.  Sherlock dared not look at his father whose eyes were filled with tears.  He hated to see his father cry.  He had only witnessed it a few times in his life, and it always broke his heart.  Mycroft had no such tears, but he was quite solemn and respectful of the proceedings.

Sherlock found his eyes wandering over the simple insides of the church.  No stained glass, no paintings of Biblical significance, no religious icons.  Just a symbol of a dove descending surrounded by simple flames.  He didn’t understand it entirely although he had read through the Bible once just to say he had read it.  It was a huge book, however, and he couldn’t remember too many specific details.  It had also been during his early university years as part of a comparative religions class, and those were the days he had dabbled more in drugs.  Now he wished Ford were beside him to explain things.  He certainly wasn’t going to ask Mycroft as surely Mycroft would only scoff at him.

When Ford had been a little better, he had asked if Sherlock would be willing to play his violin at the service, and he told Sherlock what he would like played.  Sherlock wrinkled his nose a bit at the suggested song. “Really? That’s a bit maudlin.”  He had thought Ford would ask for something religious, an old hymn perhaps.

“But it’s how I think of all of them and how I want them to think of me.” Ford had said.

When the time came during the service, Sherlock dutifully took out his violin and walked up the few steps to the platform altar.  He hesitated for a moment to gain his own composure and then began to play “I’ll Be Seeing You.”  He knew he didn’t dare make eye contact with anyone while he played or he would certainly start crying, for they were all crying except for Mycroft.  Mycroft never cried, and Sherlock envied him that trait.

While Sherlock played the main theme several times, a short video that Ford had put together before his death played on a large screen.  There were still images of Ford as a baby, a little child, a youth.  These were interspersed with video of him as a child on outings with his adoring mother. 

“I forgot how young and pretty she was.” Mrs. Holmes said quietly.  The monster that had haunted her life, she realized, was but an ordinary human being and not at all what she had locked into her memory.

There were images of Ford in hospital after his horrible car accident, and there were images of him triumphantly leaving the hospital.  There was film of his wife, their wedding, the birth of Madeline. Of Madeline laughing in her father’s arms when she was just a baby.  He could make her laugh and that in turn made him laugh.  It was a life that Sherlock’s parents were seeing for the first time, a life they were truly experiencing for the first time.  There would be time for regrets later, and those regrets were heavy.  Even Mycroft deeply regretted any action he had taken to keep Ford out of their lives, but it would be a long time before he confessed such sentiment.

Mycroft’s memory of Ford’s mother had grown very faint, and he found it interesting to see her again.  His mother would later remark that she had been younger and prettier than she had remembered, and she clearly loved her young son.

After the service, the pallbearers went up to the casket and took their places.  Sherlock and Mycroft were at the front, and all at once all six pallbearers, including their father and Patrice Barrois, lifted the casket onto their shoulders and began to carry it out of the small church and to the waiting hearse.

The graveside service was much shorter, but as Ford’s coffin was lowered into the ground, Sherlock felt for Molly’s hand at his side and entwined his fingers with hers and held her hand tightly.

His father was doing his best to be stoic, but tears rolled down his cheeks, and he shuddered a little sob.  Sherlock’s eyes suddenly filled with tears at seeing his father weep.  Mycroft’s face twitched for a moment at seeing his father’s emotion, and he put a hand on his shoulder while his mother leaned close to his father and gently stroked his arm and cheek to comfort him. 

Madeline attended both the church service and the graveside service and was remarkably stoic.  Her tears would come and go for several days and then lessen with time.  As soon as the graveside service was over and she had dropped a rose down onto her father’s casket she was given time to say goodbye to her Holmes relatives, and then her godparents immediately began to journey back to France with her.

The arrangement for Madeline was to be as it had always been on the event of Ford’s death – that she would go to live with her godparents in France who would become her legal guardians.  However, Ford had asked them on his deathbed to allow the child to spend her summers in England so that she could get to know her relatives there.  It was agreed that she would spend time with her grandparents, although Sherlock’s mother, while completely fine with the idea, told both of her grown sons that they would be expected to take her on the weekends.  Mycroft was reticent with the idea. “My home is not exactly child-proof, Mummy, and I’ve no idea how to entertain a child.” He said as they and Molly flew back to England in a private jet.

“Not to worry,” Sherlock said.  “She thinks you look mean anyhow.”

Mycroft startled at the revelation and then rolled his eyes. 

“I, on the other hand, will be more than delighted to share in the duty.” Sherlock added smugly. 

“Until Lestrade rings and then you’ll be begging me to take her off your hands.” Mycroft said.

“You two.  Stop.” their mother scolded.  She looked at Mycroft.  “Mycroft, you have that big rambling house all to yourself, and I’m quite certain you can clear one room for your niece.  I am also quite certain that you can find appropriate activities to keep her entertained, and that does not mean pawning her off on hired help or sitting her in front of the telly for hours. Since she’ll be here for the month of August, I suggest both of you start arranging your schedules now.  All of our lives have changed and we must all adapt and do our part.  Isn’t that right, Father?”

Mr. Holmes had an incredible sadness about him, and they all felt it and were verbally dancing around it. “She is your brother’s only child, and she is a Holmes, flesh and blood, and I expect both of you to protect her with your lives,” he said.   “Swear it.”

He was so rarely stern with them, but they both immediately nodded in agreement.  Sherlock’s heart was already determined to always be there for Madeline, but this was all new to Mycroft, and he knew that’s who the words were mostly meant for.

“And everyone should be CPR trained.” Molly interjected. “Sherlock and I are certified. I can help you find courses in your area that will be convenient for you.”

“Very sensible.” Mrs. Holmes agreed.

Sherlock gave Molly a slight smile and discreet wink.  _Brilliant suggestion_.  Molly kept her hands mostly folded neatly in her lap.  She wasn’t certain how comfortable Sherlock was with public displays of affection with her around his family, despite the engagement ring she openly wore around them, nor was she certain how open he was to receiving affection, especially in front of Mycroft.  However, Sherlock reached over and squeezed her hand with a little smile.  “You all right?”

She patted his hand and smiled a little to him.  “Fine.”

The plane landed at a private airport just outside of London, and a government car met Mycroft and his parents, but a black SUV was waiting for Sherlock and Molly.  “We’re not taking a cab?” she asked.

“We’re not going directly back to London.” Sherlock said.  “There’s some place I need to show you.  It won’t take long.”

“It won’t take long” turned into a 2-hour drive up the M1 to the tiny hamlet of Darley Dale, about eight miles southwest of Chesterfield.   Darley Dale wasn’t his exact destination, but it was the closest town, as much as it could be called a town. Rather, his destination lay at the end of a private road that wound deep into the nearby woods.  They came upon a very small clearing surrounded by woods, but what was in the clearing was what made Molly’s jaw drop open. “What is this place?” she asked.

“Come take a look.” Sherlock grinned.

Molly stepped out of the SUV and looked up at the cottage-style home at the end of the driveway. The new golden thatching on the roof was sculpted, carved, and then decoratively tied down in patterns resembling Celtic knots.  The walls had a bit of Tudor style to them but something else altogether although Molly could not quite pinpoint the style.  Its decorative curves in the framing, multi-paned windows and stained glass accents all bespoke of something slightly magical and dreamlike.  Above the arched doorway were the words in large letters curved around the arch, SPARROW’S NEST.

“What do you think?” he asked, clearly proud of himself.

“It’s a bit—“ she blinked in disbelief and was not sure what to say.

He frowned.  “What?”

“I’m sort of waiting for the door to open and for Snow White and the seven dwarves to come out.” she said simply. “Or perhaps this is the cottage where Princess Aurora was hidden by the three fairy godmothers.”

His nose wrinkled up at the thought.  “What?”

She linked her arm with his and assured him, “It’s wonderful, Sherlock. A little romantic.”

“I can be romantic.” He insisted.

She winked at him.  “It’s our secret.”

He brightened immediately and like an eager boy, he took her hand and said, “I was thinking of retiring to Sussex Downs someday, but Magnussen’s assistant bought a little place there, and I didn’t want to possibly bump into her.  Might be awkward. Come see the back.”

The area behind the house was even more stunning, almost a fantasy land.  If Molly thought that Snow White would come out of the front door, she was certain Alice and the White Rabbit would suddenly appear from behind a hedge.  Clearly he was building it to every whim and fantasy he had ever had as a child but could never share or express as an adult and certainly not as the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.  Although he had always said he had no appreciation for beauty, that was not true.  He not only had a great sense of it, he had a great love for it, especially nature.  It was still under construction with landscaping incomplete, but it clearly held the promise of a wondrous place filled with flowers, fruit and nut trees, a large duck pond and a small stream that gurgled with a steady supply of water.  The stonework for the pathways was incomplete, but several Victorian-style lamp posts had already been installed throughout the immediate back yard area.  He explained in great minutiae the plans he had for look of the back yard.

“And the beehives will go over there.” He pointed to an open section. “Fresh honey for my morning toast.  I can’t wait.”

It was not a project he spent a lot of time on.  He had only been working on it since his return from Serbia.  After having spent nearly two years undercover and nearly being beaten to death at the end and then coming back to an England where everything had changed so much, he had started planning his retirement.  Although he had no specific plans to retire, he wanted to have a place to retire to that had his unique stamp on it.

A small work shed of perhaps 200 square feet was nestled off to the side, designed in much the same way as the exterior of the house including a thatched roof, but inside it was set up for a laboratory although it was void of any equipment or furnishings.

The inside of the house was nearly finished but mostly unfurnished.  It had a grand fireplace in the main room with a massive mantle with two carved fighting stags in the center.  It looked very old, and he remarked that it had come from a 13th century German castle and that the room had to be built around it.  She could imagine him sitting in a worn dark leather chair by the hearth, faithful dog at his feet as he read or wrote.  From the dark, arched ceiling beams to the polished wooden floors, it was all terribly masculine but warm and inviting.

The kitchen was completely modern although she wasn’t certain why it had so many appliances.  She didn’t know him to ever cook anything in the oven.  She was not certain he could cook at all except to heat something on the cooker or in the microwave.  It was all pristine, however.  It was completely free of his normal clutter as he hadn’t moved in yet.

He took her up the curved staircase to the second level.  Even the staircase railing was carved, its support “beams” made from curved branches coming from a main branch that ran mostly parallel to the railing.  It was both rustic and exquisite. 

The upstairs had three bedrooms including a master suite with its own bathroom.  Another bathroom was in the hallway.  The two smaller bedrooms were completely empty, and she wondered why he had planned three bedrooms if he intended the home to be a private sanctuary.  After all, he had been planning this since his return.  Perhaps he meant one for a library and the other for an office.  If that were true, however, why was there a full bathroom in the hallway and a half bath just off the kitchen downstairs?

The master suite had some furnishings including a king-sized sleigh bed and a very large, antique armoire, also acquired from an old estate.  It was immediately obvious that on occasion he spent a night there although a thin layer of dust on the bed’s footboard suggested he hadn’t been there for a while. 

“Someday this will be our home,” he said.  He took her hand gently and continued, “and in the event of my untimely death while working on a case or some other unplanned incident before then, it is your home regardless.  Just do me a favor and sprinkle my ashes here.”

“Shut up.” She said. “What do you mean this is mine?”

“It’s in my will.” He said simply. “But only if I die, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t hasten that event.” When she continued to stare at him in disbelief he added softly, “It’s been in my will for you since I thought I was being sent away on the last mission.  MI6 wasn’t expecting me to survive, and I wanted to make certain Sparrow’s Nest passed into the right hands, and yours were the hands that deserved it after all you’ve done for me.”

“I hope it’s never mine.” She said. “I only want it to be ours.”

He pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed the top of her head.  “I still intend to marry you by the end of this year.” Silence fell between them in which both struggled for the next thing to say.  Finally he said softly, “Molly, I thought of bringing the two Ukrainian girls here and going into semi-retirement to raise them and the older one’s baby.  I didn’t ask you how you would have felt about it, and that was very wrong of me.”

“Yes, you should have asked me.” She held up her ring hand.  “This ring entitles me to be equal part of big life decisions that affect us.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.    My heart, such that it is, was in the right place but I went about it the wrong way.  Again, I’m sorry.  I’m not used to allowing my heart to lead me.”

“But your heart has always led you, Sherlock.  You just don’t want to admit it, but you are the most sacrificial man I know.” 

“What would you have said to adopting the girls?”

She thought about it for a long moment, carefully choosing her words.  “I would have said that it would be better if we were married and that it would be better if we first learned to just be married without bringing children into our lives, especially older children who need a kind of professional help that neither of us can provide.”

“You’re right.  You’re always right.” He admitted painfully. “But I cared so deeply for them, and I feel that I failed them.”

“Even all the nurturing your parents provided could not fix them.  They have a lot of specialized healing to do, and it’s probably best that they went back to their own country, their own language, their own culture.  They can get the help they need there, especially now that they’ll become the poster children for Ukrainian child trafficking.  You have given them a better start.  How is that failure?”

“Because I made them a promise,” he said.  “And now I can’t be assured that promise will be kept.” Anichka’s screams of _I hate you! I hate you!_ still echoed relentlessly in his brain, and he would never shake the image of seeing the girls sobbing and pleading with him to help them stay in the country.  “They would have been safe here, safe with me, safe with us.”

She rubbed his back gently. “Why not write a piece of music for them?  You could sell it through ITunes and donate all the proceeds to a fund for their future.”

 “Who would buy an amateurish composition by me? I’d be the laughing stock of the music world.”

“You compose beautiful music.  You should do it more often.”

“Perhaps one day when I’m _settled down_.” He said, and that made him smile to use the words.  “I intend to bring Madeline here during my weekends with her, so I’ll need to get a room set up for her. Want to help?”

“I’d love to.” She said.

Somehow Molly always knew the right thing to say when his heart was troubled, and it was one of the things he appreciated about her.  “Molly,” he asked softly, “do you want children with me? Do you even want children? Not accidental children but planned children.  I don’t mean right now but in the future.  It’s all right if you don’t.  I would understand.  I know I’m a difficult person and probably not the most likely candidate for fatherhood.”

“Stop talking.” She said, and he immediately stopped and waited anxiously for her to continue. “Sometimes I still struggle with the blurred lines of fantasy versus reality.  All the things I used to romanticize about you before you even really noticed me.  All the times I dreamed about making love to you before we ever actually did.”

He grinned like a proud peacock.  “Was I a good lover in your fantasy? Did reality of me meet your expectations?”

“Stop.  I’m being serious.” She said, and he quickly murmured an apology.  “I dreamed about having a family with you, and I thought how wonderful a dad you could be because I saw that possibility in you or at least I imagined it, but I wasn’t careful that first night we were together, and I let the fantasy of having your child take over.  I wanted to get pregnant that night, Sherlock, because I didn’t know if there ever would be another night, and I did want a piece of you that I could always call my own.  I still want that piece of you.”

“We had a rough start, Molly Hooper, but I’m not a fantasy.  I know I have the persona of being all brain but I am also a flesh and blood man.” He tenderly took her face in his hands. “And it has been no fantasy that my body has been inside your body and that we have been one flesh on many occasions. I have felt your heart beat in rhythm with mine, and I have seen into your soul as you have seen into mine.  You have become my fantasy, and your dreams have become my dreams.  I have fantasies too.”

“You do?” she asked.

“Of course.  That’s why I built this place.  I have a new fantasy of hearing the sound of children running through the gardens, of little hands bringing me all sorts of crawly things to identify, of helping with schoolwork projects and lessons.  But I’m afraid too.  I’m afraid you’ll think I’ll want you to quit your career just to have my children.  I absolutely don’t want that.  I’m rather chuffed to think I’ve asked a doctor to be my wife.  I’m just hoping there’s room enough in our fantasies for each other to include being a doctor, my wife, and the mother of my children.”

She nodded and smiled.  “There’s a lot of room.”

She felt him gasp and swallow hard, and when she looked up his eyes were glowing with pride and admiration for her. “I used to think I would simply retire here alone and be surrounded by my things and the quiet I enjoy to study, compose and research.  And then there was you.  You insisting on opening my heart.  You insisting that I was more than a machine, and I expanded my vision to include a retirement with you.  But even more so, I know more than ever now that Sparrow’s Nest must be filled with the sound of my progeny.  Perhaps the universe will forgive me for my sins and allow me that thing which other men so easily achieve.”

“Perhaps when your turn comes you will appreciate it all the more because of what you’ve endured to get to that point.” She said, and then she smiled gently. “But I have loads of medical and scientific projects and research of my own.”

“My lab is your lab.” He insisted.  “Perhaps we could work on some projects together?”

“I would like that.” She said. “And I would prefer to wait until after we are married before we start creating _progeny_ , as you put it. I have enough on my plate before then.” She said.

“Agreed.” He affirmed. He kissed her sweetly. “Spend the night with me, Molly Hooper.”

“Here?”

“No,” he said. “Baker Street.”

She had never spent the night at Baker Street.  That was his inner sanctum, his sacred ground. 

“Sherlock, we can stay at my place like always.  It’s fine.  I know Baker Street is your work place.”

“No, I want to.  I really want you there tonight.” He insisted.

They returned the car to the rental offices and then took a taxi back to Baker Street, but he did not have the taxi pull up to the front.  He had the taxi drive around once, and he scanned the area for any paparazzi.  A couple of potential suspects caught his eye, and he had the taxi pull around to the back by Mrs. Hudson’s bins.  He unlocked her back door and let himself in through her kitchen where he found her washing dishes.

“Mrs. Hudson.” He said simply.

“Something wrong with the front door, Sherlock?” she asked.  She always found it slightly annoying when he used her flat like a hallway.  Nevertheless she tolerated it with little more than an eye roll at him.

“Prying eyes.” He said simply.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” Molly smiled somewhat shyly.  Her fingers barely touched Sherlock’s.  She wasn’t certain how much Mrs. Hudson knew.

“Hello, Molly dear.” She said.  “Fancy seeing you here at this late hour. Shall I put the kettle on?”

“No.” Sherlock said. He waited briefly for her to understand.  Sometimes she could be frustratingly slow.  What followed was an awkward silence before Sherlock cleared his throat and said, “Right then.  We’ll just be going up.  Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson knew they were engaged, but she’d never known Molly to spend the night. In fact, she’d never actually known Sherlock to share his bed in 221B with any woman. Even when Janine had stayed in his apartment a few nights, she knew he wasn’t there. “If you’ll be needing anything…”

“We won’t.” He said.

Sherlock and Molly entered the quiet of his flat, and as soon as he unset the alarm and closed the door, she asked, “You’re not going to back out on me, are you?  Because you know it’s perfectly fine if we go to my place.”

He took a deep, tentative breath.  “Mrs. Hudson will be up with my morning tea and breakfast at 8:00.”

“Does she always do that?”

“Mmmm.” He nodded. “She’s a passable cook.  Keeps me in biscuits.  Treats me a bit like a son, I suppose.”

“That’s endearing.” Molly said.

“It’s annoying.” He said, “But I’ve managed to develop a tolerance for it.  I should warn you that we have a bit of an open door policy.  I open her doors as you just saw, and she opens mine when she brings me sustenance or does the washing up.  She came in on me once when I was starkers.  I wasn’t embarrassed, but I gave her a fright.  After that I promised to wear at least a sheet when I got up.”

“And do you often go around in only a sheet?”

“I generally don’t get properly dressed at all if I don’t have a case that requires me to leave the flat.  Of course, when John lived here I at least wore pyjamas and a dressing gown.  He would not have appreciated that habit.”

“I should think not.” She gently took his hand.  “Why are we still standing here?”

“Because I’m having a bit of a panic.” He admitted and she groaned a little.

She rubbed his back. “Staying at your flat for the night has been a barrier between us, a part of you that you haven’t been ready to share.”

“I know. I know.” He said.

This was the one place where he felt his identity was pure and unfettered by the biological urges of the lower half of his body. He did his best thinking there not to mention countless experiments.  His kitchen was often his laboratory.  _The brain is all that matters.  The rest is just transport_ he had once said to John, but the transport did matter.  The transport had to have proper nourishment to function efficiently.  John had berated him constantly on that point, feeling that when they had first met that Sherlock was actually underweight.  His transport mattered ever since entering into a relationship with Molly Hooper.

He had never claimed he didn’t have sexual desires.  What he had claimed was that girlfriends weren’t his area.  John had initially interpreted that to mean that Sherlock was gay, but he would later learn that boyfriends weren’t Sherlock’s area either.  Relationships and friendships in general weren’t his area.  Therefore, sexual relationships were not a governing factor in his life, and for the most part he kept his body’s urges under control, especially at 221B Baker Street.  Generally a cold shower could drive any distracting thoughts and desires from his mind, but on the occasions when his body’s arousal betrayed his mind, he gave himself release while feeling all the more the failure afterwards for his great mind not to have been able to overcome his transport.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he asked.

“We can go to my place. _Again._ ”

“No, I can do this.” He insisted.  He took her hand and smiled and led her back to his bedroom and shut the door behind them.

Several hours later he padded out of his bedroom clothed loosely in his dressing gown.  He made his way into the kitchen and filled a glass with tap water, downing it quickly.  The only light besides the street light coming through the windows was from his laptop.  An email alert flashed on his screen.  He glanced back at his bedroom.  Molly was sleeping soundly, and he reasoned it wouldn’t hurt to look at the emails.  Perhaps there would be an interesting case.  What he found, however, was not what he expected.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I am sorry not to have written sooner, but my world has been turned upside down and I am still getting used to my life here.  I would like to have written this in English, but already I am forgetting the English I learned!_

_My relatives have not been found yet, and in a way it doesn’t matter anyhow.  Mr. Dzubenko said I may stay with his family as long as I need.  He has a nice family._

_Raisa is my love.  She is my life.  I am very happy to see her when I come home from school.  I am very proud of her.  I am attaching a picture of us.  We took it yesterday at my birthday party._

_Anichka is not doing very well, but I think her heart will be better in time.  We Skype at night on the IPads you gave us for Christmas.  She smiles but she is not happy.  Her aunt and uncle are nice, but she misses me.  She misses Didus and Babusya.  She misses England.  She misses you.  I tell her that she is my sister always and nothing will ever change that.  Maybe one day we will be together again.  Mr. Dzubenko said she could visit anytime, and I hope we can get her to come soon, even if for the weekend.  Last night she showed me her arms.  She has been cutting herself.  I told her she must stop.  She said it didn’t hurt, but I said to not do it anymore.  I made her promise._

_Please do not think bad of me for saying this. In my secret heart I wish you could be my father, but I know I am just a silly girl with silly ideas.  Even so, you are the first man who showed me what a father should be.  Didus was the second man.  Mr. Dzubenko is the third man.  Anichka and I did not have a father.  All we had were our mother’s boyfriends, but they didn’t care about us.  They only wanted sex with my mother or with us.  You were not like those men.  Mr. Dzubenko is not like those men.  Didus was not like those men.  Sorry, I am crying right now.  I did not know until I met you that there were good men in the world.  Sometimes I think a man might be good, but it is hard to trust.   Maybe one day I will find one like you.  There are some nice boys at Mr. Dzubenko’s church, but I think I will avoid all that until I graduate from university.  Then maybe I will get a little flat and Anichka can come to live with me and Raisa._

_Raisa has just started to call me Mama but she says it to Mrs. Dzubenko too.  She calls Mr. Dzubenko “Papa.”  She says other words too, and she toddles around with the Dzubenko children.  They all love her dearly.  I change all her nappies, give her bath at night, put her to bed and read her a story.  She is a very good girl.  On the weekends, if it is not too cold, I take her to the park.  I have a back carrier that she rides in.   I carry her everywhere, and I am not ashamed.  One day she will understand that I am her real Mama._

_Mr. Dzubenko’s church has a support group for unwed mothers like me.  I am the youngest in the group.  I have not told them my whole story.  Maybe some day.  It is still very painful.  Some nice older ladies at the church help with our group, and they are teaching us some life skills like cooking, sewing and how to balance finances.  They do not judge us.  They just love us.  We are all going to get CPR certified because it is so important to know how to help if your child is choking or not breathing for any reason.  There is one lady who is teaching self-defense.  I enjoy going every week.  When summer comes I am going to learn to swim and also start to teach Raisa to swim._

_I am not sure what I someday want to study in university, but I think I might want journalism or to be a pediatric doctor.  Maybe even a lawyer.  I have to see which one is the greater passion over the next few years._

_I have begun to write my book, but it is hard.  I cry all the time when I am writing it.  Mrs. Dzubenko is very supportive.  I let her read what I write, and sometimes she cries too.  She helps a lot with spelling and grammar.  I try to find my own mistakes, but it is impossible!  I will send it to you when I am finished, if I ever finish._

_Sometimes I cry because since you rescued us, people have been so kind and generous, and life has been so much better.  Babusya will tell you that I cried often.  Good things have happened since you came into our lives.  Good people.  Safety.  Sometimes it is overwhelming.  That’s when I cry.  Before you I had no hope.  Now I have a little hope, and it hurts sometimes._

_I love you very much, Sherlock.  You will always be in my heart (and Anichka would say the same sentiment).  Please give Didus and Babusya a kiss from me, Anichka and Raisa._

_I will never forget you. You will always be my hero.  I hope I will make you proud._

_All my love forever,_

_Ionna_

Sherlock didn’t know how many times he had reread her email or how long he’d been sitting at his computer, but he did notice the lump in his throat.  He was glad no one was around and that he could have this moment completely in private.  Ionna did make him proud, as proud as any real father could possibly be for their child.   Even so, he felt as if his paternal inclinations towards the girl had now been tucked away, and he was determined not to let them out again.  He would just be a short chapter in the lives of the girls.  Ionna’s comments about Anichka’s self-destruction worried him, but aside from alerting Dzubenko, there was nothing more he could do.  He could not interfere in her new life.  He suspected she would need years of intense psychological counseling, and he hoped her aunt and uncle would get her help soon, but he could not interfere even to suggest it.   His hopes for Anichka were filled with great concern, but from the moment he’d met her, he had felt she was a time bomb just waiting to go off, and that kind of bomb disposal was far beyond what he could offer.  He had not received an email from Anichka, and he was beginning to suspect that he never would.  He wasn’t entirely certain how long he should keep up the communication with Ionna.

_Dear Ionna,_

_It sounds as if everything is going well for you, and I am delighted to hear it.  Do send my regards to the Dzubenko family._

_When your book is published, I will be first in line to purchase a copy._

_Give my best to Anichka. Didus and Babusya send their love.  Dr. Watson also sends his best.  Perhaps one day you can visit England. You are always welcome._

_All my best,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

His response email was blunt and emotionally non-committal, and that’s the way he needed it to be.  He needed to stay clear of interfering in Ionna’s new life as well, and he needed to distance himself from his paternal feelings for the girls, a process he knew would continue to take time.  She was being well cared for and was starting on a better path, and that was all he needed to know.  He and his parents had merely been a transition time from the bad to the good and nothing more.   

He sat back in his chair for a moment, his hands steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin with his face bathed in the light from his laptop.  His eyes wandered around his flat.  There was something different there now.  The frenetic energy that often filled his head was placid, like a lake without a breeze to stir the waters.  There was an unexpected calmness in his heart, and it seemed to permeate the flat.  He looked towards his bedroom where Molly continued to sleep, and he smiled to himself.  She was the calm, and what he thought was once home was now _home_. 

He quietly closed the laptop sending him into near darkness.  He began to make his way back to his bedroom, back to the sleeping woman with whom he was building a future filled with hope of new dreams he now dared to dream. 

But his life was on another course too: he had a promise to fulfill to his deceased brother, a promise that he did not make lightly, a promise that threatened to destroy the foundations of everything he had ever believed and held true.

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Following this book is the already posted story, THE BLACKBIRD AND THE MULTIFARIOUS QUILL (AKA - LETTERS OF INTRODUCTION).


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